


you make my heart ache

by grimm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Aquaphobia, Blow Jobs, Cursed, Derek POV, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Facials, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Dates, Garden Verse, Hunt, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mates, Mating Cycles/In Heat, POV Outsider, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Stiles POV, Underage - Freeform, Witches, bottom!Derek, dubcon, kid!Sterek, prompt fills, stripper!derek, the sheriff finds out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 105
Words: 248,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimm/pseuds/grimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the place for all of my Tumblr prompt fills and mini fics. Each chapter is a self-contained, complete fic. See each chapter's notes for tags, pairings, and rating information.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Stories will be tagged as necessary and warnings will be posted within chapter notes. Ratings may range from general to explicit. Stories may contain angst, fluff, sex, gore, or what have you. I'm currently (as in the week of May 27th) celebrating a prompt week, so be sure to subscribe, as this space will be updated daily (or nearly daily, depending on what's going on in real life). 
> 
> My tumblr -> [grimm-times](http://grimm-times.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Explicit  
>  **Warnings for:** major character death, underage

The first time it happens, it’s a couple days after the hunters find Erica’s body in the woods. Stiles heads over to Derek’s new loft, still in his suit, because Derek didn’t go to the funeral and even if he’s kind of jack-off, Stiles won’t feel right until he makes sure that Derek’s okay. Derek doesn’t come to the door when he knocks, but it’s unlocked so Stiles lets himself in.

Derek’s rearranged since the last time Stiles was here; he’s dragged the couch in front of the window so it can catch the midday sun and he’s sitting on it with his arms spread across the back, head tilted back. Stiles is suddenly angry at him, furious that he was here, relaxing in the sun while the rest of them sat in tense silence through Erica’s funeral.

Derek doesn’t move, even when Stiles strides up to the back of the couch and smacks him across the face. He just opens his eyes and looks up at Stiles and Stiles is struck by the misery he sees there. It’s raw, not like anything Derek’s ever allowed him to see before.

“You should have been there,” Stiles says quietly, his throat burning.

Derek closes his eyes again. “No.”

“You were her alpha.”

“I wasn’t her anything,” Derek says, and he doesn’t sound angry, just bitter. “She left. That was her decision.”

“Still,” Stiles says tightly. “You should have come.”

Derek sighs and opens his eyes. He pushes himself to his feet and heads for the kitchen, saying as he goes, “And say what to her parents when they asked who I am? That I’m the asshole who got their daughter killed?”

Stiles shoves him into the wall, furious, and Derek blinks at him in surprise. “It wasn’t you,” Stiles says angrily.

Derek stares at him and there’s confusion and hurt in his eyes, and then it happens. Maybe Stiles should be surprised that it’s taken this long, or maybe he should be surprised that it’s happening at all, but suddenly Derek’s there in his personal space, pressing their mouths together, dragging him down.

They end up on the cold cement floor, frantically rutting against each other, and Stiles comes in his pants, sticky and uncomfortable. Derek manages to get his own jeans halfway down his ass and he spills across Stiles’ suit jacket, looking shocked. Stiles stares at the stain and says discontentedly, “This thing’s dry-clean only, you know.”

Derek makes a grimace that’s nearly a smile. He cooks them a frozen pizza and they don’t talk about what just happened. Which is fine, really; Stiles doesn’t think they need to make a big deal of it. He goes home and tries to get the jizz out of his suit and the next day, if he smells like Derek, the pack either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Stiles figures that’s the end of it, but he’s wrong.

The second time happens a couple of weeks later. It’s late at night and they’ve had their first skirmish in the woods with the alpha pack. Stiles, in all his grace, tripped out a tree root and twisted his ankle in the dark. It’s Derek who drives him home, helps him up the stairs, and gets an ice pack for his ankle. While Stiles sits cross-legged on his bed, pressing the ice to his swollen skin, Derek dithers in the doorway and finally says, “Can I stay?”

Stiles nods and they watch a couple of episodes of _Mythbusters_ to help settle their minds, pull them back from the dark space the fight brought them to. When they climb under the covers, Derek pulls a hand around Stiles’ hip and grinds against him until he comes on Stiles’ back, wet and hot, and then he wraps his fingers around Stiles’ cock and jerks him off with long, gentle strokes.

Stiles stops counting after the second time. It’s not a thing – or at least, not a thing either of them want to put a label on – and he has a feeling it’s not helping either of them, but it drives away some of the loneliness and pain and they both need a little bit of happiness, however temporary. When Derek comes over, he never leaves; he is always there in the morning and there is something reassuring about going to bed and knowing that he’s not going to wake up alone. Stiles comes to understand who Derek is a little better; he tells Stiles his plans at night, in the dark, and Stiles makes him explain himself until his decision-making process becomes clear. It makes him realize what a deep thinker Derek is; even his most rushed, piece-mail plan is anything but. It makes him realize that Derek is not just a hollow husk of anger and dry wit, but a deep, vast pool of emotional thought.

This thing they have won’t last, but Stiles will treasure it until it ends.

Each late-night meeting teaches them something new. Neither of them has ever given a blow job but they get through it together. The first time they fuck, Derek is on top and Stiles is below, and they are both so nervous that neither of them enjoy it very much, but they get better over time.

When things go wrong, they’re there for each other. Stiles’ dad gets mixed up in the violence and ends up in the hospital, deep lacerations on his chest from werewolf claws. Derek finds Stiles sitting on his bed crying and doesn’t say a word, just strips them out of their clothes. He gets Stiles under the sheets and presses his long, warm body against his, and holds Stiles until his breathing slows and he drifts off to sleep. In the morning, Stiles kisses Derek and says, “Don’t fucking leave me,” and rides him with tears slipping down his cheeks.

The last time it happens it’s six hours after the final battle with the alpha pack. Derek is weak; his arm was hanging by a few tendons just hours before, and they nearly lost Scott _and_ Isaac. Their sex that night is slow and gentle. Derek holds Stiles like he’s afraid he might break and murmurs soft, comforting things in his ear. He kisses Stiles all over, touches his lips to every mole, but his gaze is distant, and in the morning when Stiles goes to leave, Derek grabs him by the wrist and kisses his pulse and that’s the end.

Stiles doesn’t hear from Derek for a few days, and the pack hasn’t seen him, so he goes to the loft. Derek doesn’t answer when he knocks, but the door is unlocked so he goes inside. Everything looks exactly like it always does, but Derek is gone. His few personal effects – the tiny photograph of his family he’d kept tacked to the wall above the bed, his clothes, his books – they’re all gone. Stiles sits down on the edge of the bed, his eyes swimming with tears. He wasn’t in love – he thinks he’s too young to really understand what love is – but Derek was there when he needed him, a quiet, competent shoulder to lean on, a comfort in the way Scott’s never been.

Stiles notices a piece of paper taped to the window and when he pulls it down, his vision starts swimming again. _Had to leave before this town consumed me. You need to too. I’m sorry._ That’s all it says. On the back there’s a string of numbers, too short to be a phone number. Stiles tries calling him, but he can hear the phone ringing somewhere inside the apartment, and tracks it down to the trash can in the kitchen. Stiles wipes a hand across his face, slips the piece of paper into his pocket, and goes home.

-

“Can I see it?” Scott asks one day, a couple of months later. Stiles pulls the note Derek left from his wallet, where it’s sat since the day he found it, and hands it silently to Scott, who squints at it. “What are these numbers?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says with a shrug.

“Looks like a zip code.”

Stiles sits up straight.

Later, Stiles sits at home and types the zip code into Google Maps with shaking fingers. It’s a small town outside of Santa Fe and he breathes out, feeling raw and torn. Blinking fiercely against the tears burning in his eyes, Stiles starts researching colleges in New Mexico.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Teen?  
>  **Warnings for:** panic attacks, aquaphobia

It has taken Stiles several months to get comfortable around water again. As it turns out, having to keep yourself and another person afloat in a pool for two hours while a snake-monster circles the edge, waiting to rip your throat out, is somewhat traumatizing. It’s the closest to death he’s ever been and it’s hard not to slip into a panic attack when he thinks about how, if he’d died, Derek would have too, and it would have been his fault.

Stiles gets out of the swimming unit in gym class by forging a note from his doctor that says he’s allergic to chlorine and he has to walk laps around the edge while everyone else swims and that’s hard enough, just being near the place where he almost died. Driving in the rain is enough to get his pulse rising, and baths are out of the question. He takes _very_ fast showers.

Even though Matt was a psycho, Stiles feels for him a little, even if it’s his fault that Stiles feels like this now. He works on it, though; forces himself to stay in the shower even after he’s clean, drives with the window open when it rains, fills the tub with water and sticks his feet in and tries to contain the shudders.

He gets better, but it’s still hard in the summer, and everyone wants to go to the reservoir and swim; luckily, he has a good imagination and it’s not hard to get inventive with his excuses, but Lydia _refuses_ to take no for an answer when she announces she’s having a pool party on the Fourth of July.

“No,” Stiles says, when he runs into her at the grocery store and she offers the invitation (which even three months ago he would have been psyched to have been offered, but now it’s overshadowed by the looming threat of deep water).

Lydia blinks disbelievingly, a stiff smile spreading over her face. “Yes,” she says firmly. “Don’t think you can get out of this.”

“Um, I can’t?” Stiles says, scratching at the back of his neck. “Scott and I always go—”

“Ah, ah,” Lydia beams, tilting her head to one side. “I know you aren’t doing anything. I already asked Scott.”

Stiles feels utterly betrayed. He and Scott _always_ go camping on the Fourth of July. Stupid Scott probably thinks he’s doing Stiles a favor by freeing up his schedule so he can hang out with Lydia, but Stiles _really_ does not appreciate it.

Lydia seems to take his silence for acceptance, because she smiles and says, “Party starts at eight. I’ll see you then.”

On the fourth, Stiles sits in his room and watches the clock tick closer to eight. He’s not going; he doesn’t care what Lydia will do. He can’t go any lower on the social totem pole; people don’t trust him because his dad’s the sheriff and that makes him a snitch, he guesses. Eight comes and goes and he starts to relax, because there’s no angry call from Lydia. Then there’s a knock on the front door. Stiles jumps like he’s guilty and tromps downstairs to find Scott standing on the front porch, looking cheerful.

“Hey dude,” Scott says brightly. “Lydia sent me to get you. You could have told me the Jeep was broken.”

“That is absolutely not true,” Stiles says, slightly astonished that Lydia would stoop so low to get him there.

“Then what’s up? Aren’t you coming?”

Stiles hesitates. He knows that Scott would completely understand if Stiles told him he was afraid of water, but there’s a weird part of him that worries about saying anything. As a human, he’s already on the fringes of this whole werewolf thing, and he doesn’t want to look weaker than he already is. And anyway, he doesn’t have to go in the pool, right? He sighs. “Let me grab my swim trunks.” Scott beams.

The party is small, much smaller than extravagant galas Stiles is used to Lydia throwing. The only people there are the betas and Allison, who is careful to keep herself on the opposite side of the pool from Scott. Jackson is sitting on the edge of the pool, his feet dangling in the water, looking like he’s in his element, and he is; he’s the captain of the swim team and he loves any opportunity to show off his perfectly toned body. Stiles gives him a disgusted look and forces himself to smile when Lydia comes up, a satisfied look on her face.

“Nice to see you here,” she says, like she didn’t nearly break his arm twisting it to get him here. “I made punch.”

“It’s not going to make me hallucinate like last time, is it?” Stiles jokes nervously, accepting the glass she offers. Lydia gives him a blank look and circles around the pool to talk to Allison. Stiles shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, glancing at the water like it’s going to rise up and pull him in which, after all the weird shit they’ve dealt with, doesn’t seem like such a far-fetched idea. Scott abandons him to leap into the pool and the spray hits Stiles’ feet. He flinches and moves backward to sit on a bench, watching everyone else. Isaac looks just as comfortable as Jackson, which makes sense; his dad was the swim coach and he’s probably been swimming since he was born. Erica looks like she could care less about being in the water, but she’s wearing the tiniest bikini Stiles has ever seen, and looks highly pleased with herself. Boyd’s arguing with Jackson about something stupid, but Stiles thinks that he’s tall enough that even if he stood in the deep end, his head would stick above the water.

Stiles sighs quietly and glances around the yard, thinking maybe there will be a shrub or something he can hide behind until everyone forgets about him and he can sneak out. That’s when he spots Derek, of all people, leaning against the side of the house with his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth the thinnest, grimmest line Stiles has ever seen it. He is wearing a black t-shirt and – Stiles’ mouth drops open incredulously – grey board shorts covered in heavy swathes of neon pink and blue. Derek catches him staring and glares.

Derek probably has no interest in talking, but Stiles gets up anyway, because he’s the only person who is also avoiding death by not going in the pool. (And the thing is, Stiles thinks, he’d really _like_ to be in the pool. It’s early July, it’s blazing hot. His skin is tacky with sweat, and he _knows_ the water would feel awesome, but he just can’t do it.)

“Nice shorts,” he says to Derek, who scowls.

“They were on clearance,” Derek replies shortly, his jaw tightening.

“Savvy shopper,” Stiles says lightly and he goes to shove a hand in his pocket before realizing these swim trunks don’t have pockets. He jerks his head toward the pool instead. “You going in?”

“No,” Derek says bluntly, and even though his face betrays nothing, Stiles hears it in his voice. _Ah,_ he realizes. _He’s afraid too._

“I thought dogs loved water,” Stiles says, trying to keep things light. Derek glares at him, and then his face softens slightly, like he’s picking up on the way Stiles watches the water anxiously.

“What about you?” Derek asks in a tone Stiles has never heard before and he realizes that Derek is _teasing_ him. “It’s hot out, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you know,” Stiles says with a faint smile, shrugging. “I just ate. Can’t go in the water for half an hour.”

“That’s a myth, Stilinski!” Jackson bellows from the water.

“Better safe than sorry,” Stiles mutters, crossing his arms across his chest uncomfortably.

“You’re a good swimmer,” Derek says, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles shrugs again, his lips going thin.

“Dude!” Scott calls, crossing his arms over the side of the pool. “C’mere!”

Stiles sighs and turns away from Derek, forcing himself to approach the edge of the pool, though he stops a good five feet away. “What’s up?” he asks Scott.

Scott smiles up at him beguilingly. “Aren’t you coming in?”

“I, I think I’m fine,” Stiles says casually. “I’m not like super hot.”

“It’s like ninety degrees,” Scott laughs. “C’mon.”

“Nah,” Stiles says. “I’m go—” He cuts off abruptly as someone grabs him around the chest and plucks him off his feet. “What—”

“Suck it up, Stilinski,” Jackson says with a laugh, and flings him into the pool.

Stiles hits the water flat on his back and it makes a noise like a cannonball. All the air goes rushing from his lungs on impact and he sinks like a stone.

Derek was right. Stiles _is_ a good swimmer, but now he’s panicking. His empty lungs ache and he sucks in water by mistake, and the pool is dark and he’s having trouble figuring out which way is up and he’s just trapped in darkness and he’s going to die, he’s going to die, and that’s going to be so _stupid_ that after all they’ve faced, it’s a fucking pool party that kills him.

Something hits the water nearby and suddenly there are hands hooking under his arms, pulling him up, up, until his head breaks the surface of the water. He’s coughing and choking on the water in his lungs, but he’s being pulled to the side of the pool and pushed up, back onto firm ground. When Stiles looks, it’s Derek climbing out of the pool, snarling furiously at Jackson, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

He does neither; there’s still no air in his lungs. He’s sucking and sucking and nothing’s coming in. Scott pops up from wherever he’s been, and he says, “Stiles?” but Derek’s there next to him, a hand around his bicep, pulling him to his feet.

Stiles is dimly aware that everyone’s gone completely silent and now he’s going to be known as the guy who ruined Lydia’s party, but Derek says, “We’re leaving,” to no one in particular and pulls Stiles across the yard, through Lydia’s house and down her long driveway. Derek’s parked on the street but he doesn’t get into the car; he pushes Stiles down to the curb and commands, “Breathe.”

Stiles folds under his direction and weakly crosses his arms over his face. He’s deep into a panic attack and it feels like his heart’s trying to escape through his mouth and he _still_ hasn’t gotten any air. He barely registers that Derek sits on the curb next to him and he says again, more gently, “Breathe,” but he doesn’t try to touch Stiles again, which is a relief because he doesn’t need any more stimulation.

It takes a few minutes, but Stiles eventually gets air into his lungs and his heart calms and even though he feels as weak as a newborn kitten, he lifts his head and rubs the tears from the corners of his eyes. Derek’s watching him, but he doesn’t say anything until Stiles mutters, “Okay, so _that_ was embarrassing.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Derek replies. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Fucking Jackson,” Stiles mumbles, running a hand through his sodden hair. He’s suddenly cold, despite the warm night air, and wraps his arms around his knees to keep them from shaking. “You’re okay?”

“That wasn’t pleasant,” Derek says quietly.

“Thanks for getting me out of there.”

“Just returning the favor.”

Stiles looks over at Derek and he’s pale, even under the yellow streetlight. “You sure you’re okay?”

Derek nods, looking grim. After a long moment, he says, “How bad is it for you?”

Stiles sighs, running a hand over his face. “I can’t even stick my feet in a bathtub full of water without freaking out. What about you?”

Derek’s silent for a long time before he says, very quietly, “The basement’s full of water. I’ve been sleeping in the Camaro because I can’t stand the sound of it dripping.”

“And yet you jumped into a pool to save me.”

“Because I knew how it would feel, if it was me,” Derek says, the corners of his mouth turning down.

Stiles taps his fingers against his knees. “Well, you can’t sleep in your car forever,” he says. “I can’t imagine that’s comfortable. How about you bunk at my place and we’ll work on this together. Hm?” He holds his fist out to Derek.

Derek lifts his eyebrows, surprised. Then he bumps his knuckles against Stiles’ very quickly and gets to his feet. “Come on,” Derek says. “I’ll give you a lift.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Mature?  
>  No warnings. Established relationship.

There are a lot of things Derek likes about Stiles. His creamy skin and the way it’s freckled with moles, for example, and the way he’ll wander into the kitchen in the morning wearing his boxers and one of Derek’s shirts, so Derek can press his nose into the crook of his neck and smell the two of them there. He likes how Stiles pretends to be embarrassed when Derek picks him up from work, and how he sings in the shower without shame, and how his cheeks glow red when he’s happy.

But of all the things Derek loves about Stiles, he loves his mouth the most. He was attracted to it long before they were together, his eyes pulled to Stiles’ pink, full lips during pack meetings and stakeouts. He’d listen to Stiles talk forever, if just to watch the way his mouth moves when he talks, the way his tongue swipes across his lips while he pauses to think about what he’s going to say next. Civilizations could collapse, the world could end, and still Derek would dream of Stiles’ mouth.

The first time they kissed, Derek nearly came in his pants like a fucking teenager, overwhelmed by the taste and feel of him. He doesn’t think Stiles understands just how much he loves it, the way his spine tingles when Stiles laughs as Derek draws a finger along his lips and chases his finger with his long tongue. Derek carefully catalogs every memory; the way his lips look wrapped around Derek’s cock, the way his mouth goes slack as he’s coming undone.

Derek will see a lot of things in his life, but there will never be anything more beautiful than the way the corners of Stiles’ mouth turn up as he says _I love you._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating** : Not Rated  
>  **Applicable Tags** : kid!Sterek, mates

Derek is three days away from his sixth birthday when he meets his mate for the first time. He's standing with his mom, Talia, after school one day while she talks with his first-grade teacher, Mrs. S. Derek leans against his mom's legs, not really listening to the adults talk about the upcoming Thanksgiving celebration. He's tired; the full moon was the night before and it was the first time he'd ever been able to fully contain the shift. The warmth of his mother's body is comforting, as is the gentle hand she rests against the back of his head.  
  
A man comes into the classroom and Derek turns to watch him. He's stocky and tanned and dressed in a police uniform. He's carrying a baby carrier in one hand, which juxtaposes strangely with the gun holstered on his other hip.  
  
"My two favorite boys," Mrs. S says fondly.  
  
"Deputy," Talia greets politely.  
  
"Mrs. Hale," the man nods.  
  
"Derek," Mrs. S says to him, "this is my husband."  
  
Derek looks up at the man, who gives him a firm smile. Derek finds himself intimidated by the man's uniform and gun and looks at the baby in the carrier instead.  
  
"Sorry," his mother laughs softly. "He gets shy sometimes."  
  
"That's quite all right," the deputy chuckles.  
  
Derek's staring at the baby, his pale eyes locked on its chubby face. The baby stares back with soft amber eyes, blinking sleepily. It smells - Derek takes a step away from Talia, breathing in deeply. The baby smells like clean cotton and _family,_ and the scent fills him with warmth and comfort.  
  
"This is Genim," Mrs. S says softly, kneeling down beside Derek. "Maybe the two of you will be friends someday."  
  
Derek reaches out a curious hand, then pauses, glancing at Mrs. S for the okay. She nods, smiling, and Derek stretches his hand out all the way. The baby's fingers curl around his pointer finger and Gemin shrieks with laughter. Derek smiles timidly as Mrs. S pats him on the shoulder. "There," she says. "He likes you!"  
  
"All right," Derek's mom says, gently tugging on his hair. "We should get going. You're helping me with dinner tonight."  
  
"Have a good night, Derek," Mrs. S says cheerfully, getting to her feet.  
  
"Bye," Derek says reluctantly, as Talia puts a hand on his back and guides him out of the classroom. With every step toward the classroom door, however, it feels like his heart is being pulled from him, his limbs filling with lead. By the time they reach the hall, Derek's starting to cry and his mother kneels down to cup his face in her hands.

"What's wrong, baby boy?" she asks softly, her brow furrowing with worry.

Derek doesn't know what's wrong; all he knows is that his body feels like it's splitting in two. He wraps his arms around his mom's neck and she picks him up easily, backpack and all, cradling his head to her neck. In the classroom behind them, Genim's voice raises in high wail. 

"Guess everyone's tired today," Talia murmurs, planting a soft kiss on Derek's temple. 

At home, Derek sits at the kitchen counter and lets Talia wipe off his tear-stained face with a wet rag. Outside, Laura and his other siblings scream with laughter as they play in the late afternoon sun, but Derek still feels like he's being pulled in two directions. 

"Mama?" he asks quietly, as Talia begins washing vegetables in the sink. 

"Hmm?" she hums, tilting her head toward him. 

He digs at the counter with a long fingernail and takes a deep breath. "Are there such things as mates?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> **Rating** : Not Rated  
>  **Applicable Tags** : Witches, Cursed, Truthbombs

“This is all your fault,” Stiles mumbles, one eye following the witch as she monologues in front of the fire. Her name’s Matilda or Mildred or something dreary like that, and she’s as crazy as loon.

 _“My_ fault?” Derek mutters, sounding outraged. “You’re the idiot who thought it’d be a great idea to go chasing after her without a plan.”

“Oh, like even if we had a plan it would have worked,” Stiles replies mutinously. “Hate to break it to you, buddy, but you are the worst planner in the world.”

“Maybe if you listened for once, they’d actually go as planned,” Derek shoots back, glowering his heaviest glower.

“Ex _cuse_ me,” the witch – Margaret? Marybeth? – snaps. “Eyes to the front of the class, children. You think this is a _game?”_

“Course not,” Stiles says sweetly, and rolls his eyes when she goes back to ranting – she’s talking about vegan diets, for some reason – and whisper-shouts at Derek, “All I’m saying is that _you_ looked for her for weeks without any luck. You think _I_ was going to let her slip away?”

Derek growls low in his chest and sneers, “Yeah, and look at all the good it’s done us. Tied up in the woods and no one even knows we’re out here.”

“I _told_ you to call Scott,” Stiles snaps. “It’s not my fault you refuse to put him in your phone.”

They both realize the witch is staring at them, her arms crossed over her chest. “Finished?” Mona – Mabel – Millie asks icily.

“Go right ahead,” Derek says sarcastically, matching her cool stare. When Moira – Muriel – Melaniestarts talking again, he says to Stiles, “If my hands weren’t tied up with fucking _wolfsbane rope,_ I’d snap your scrawny little neck.”

“Oh really?” Stiles snarks. “Good thing you’re my dad’s number one suspect when _anything_ happens in this town. You kill me and he’ll be on you so fast you—”

“That’s it!” the witch screeches, and they both whip their heads round to look at her. She looks like she’s about to start pulling her frizzy grey hair out by the roots. “You little brats—”

 _“Hey!”_ Stiles and Derek protest in unison, then glare at each other.

“This is your problem,” Marian – Myrna – Madge says, shaking a finger at them. “If you two hadn’t been so busy arguing with each other, maybe you _could_ have stopped me.”

“Are you supposed to say things like that?” Stiles asks curiously, at the same time Derek says, “It’s not my fault he’s an idiot.”

Stiles glares at him and say, _“Me?_ You—”

“Enough!” the witch shouts. “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all!”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says sarcastically, “like that’s—”

The witch raises her hands. There’s a bright flash of white light and when Stiles’ vision clears, the witch is gone, the fire has been reduced to embers, and his hands are no longer tied behind his back. Beside him, Derek’s flexing his arms, rubbing at his wrists, which are raw from prolonged contact with wolfsbane.

“You okay, dude?” Stiles asks.

“No thanks to you,” Derek mutters. “You—” His mouth snaps shut, his jaw working furiously. He’s glaring as he tries again. “You’re—”

Stiles raises his eyebrows at him. “Keep at it, champ.”

Derek snarls and snaps, “I think you’re smarter than you let on.” There’s an audible click as his mouth snap shuts again, surprise on his face. “I did not mean to say that,” he mutters.

 _You have a problem letting other people take charge,_ is what Stiles means to say.  What he says instead is, "You're a better alpha than you think you are." Stiles smacks a hand over his mouth and mutters through his fingers, "That is _not_ what I meant."  
  
"That stup – that old – that _witch_ cursed us," Derek snaps.  
  
"Oh," Stiles says, blinking as he realizes, and repeats her words. "'If you have nothing nice to say—”  
  
"Finish that sentence and I'll—” Derek cuts himself off, looking livid. He sighs irritably. "Let's go see Deaton."  
  
-  
  
Dr. Deaton has no answers for them. He shrugs, smiling his enigmatic smile, and says, "Spells like this usually wear off in a couple of days, or when the affected learn their lesson."  
  
"Lesson?" Stiles and Derek chorus, then glare daggers at each other.  
  
Deaton laughs softly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'd say this will be good for you."  
  
As they leave the clinic, Derek says, looking smug, "You think you can keep your mouth shut?"  
  
 _I hate your guts,_ is what Stiles tries to say, but instead he mutters, "You have really nice eyes."  
  
Derek stops walking, all the smugness sliding off his face, and Stiles hurries toward his car, his ears burning, anxious to leave before he can say anything _more_ embarrassing.  
  
-  
  
The week does not improve from there. It doesn’t take long for the pack to realize that Stiles and Derek don’t just have to be nice to each other – they have to be nice to _everyone._ It’s soon their favorite pastime to wind Stiles up until he snaps, and they seem to find it the height of entertainment when he’s standing in the cafeteria shouting compliments at the top of his lungs. Scott nearly falls out of his chair laughing when Stiles bellows, “YOU HAVE A GREAT ASS,” at Jackson’s retreating back.

Derek doesn’t seem to be in any rush to find the witch, probably because he’s alone most of the day and doesn’t even noticed he’s been cursed, but Stiles is _built_ of snark and sarcasm. Without his witty insults, he doesn’t know who he is. Soon he’s just going to be one of those average, boring people who ends up as an accountant or something. Derek, though – he seems to find their affliction just as hilarious as the rest of the pack, and he’s become the master of winding Stiles up while still being unerringly kind. Stiles kind of hates him for it.

They have a pack meeting full of more fruitless discussion about the witch in which – and Stiles knows this because Allison’s been keeping a notebook of all the things Stiles and Derek have been saying which she thinks she’s being super sneaky about – Stiles told Scott he’d always liked his bone structure, even if his jaw line _was_ a little crooked, told Boyd one of his English essays made him cry once, and told Erica she’s got really great boobs but he’s not interested, _really._ Even Derek had grown annoyed and broken out of his zen mode to snap at Lydia that her calculations were _always_ correct and then later at Stiles that he was _really good_ at fixing problems.

Stiles thinks that maybe Derek’s finally getting sick of the curse because as everyone’s leaving, he says, “Stiles, can we talk?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said tightly. It’s strange, the way the spell is working. In the beginning, he could cut himself off before saying anything _too_ embarrassing, but as the week wore on, it became harder and harder to cut himself off if he began speaking, like he was being _compelled_ to talk. It makes him think hard about what he’s going to say, because once he opens his mouth it’s like a runaway train; there’s no stopping the words that come out (and worse, what comes out is always _true_ ; he _does_ think Jackson has a great ass, and Erica’s boobs, though not his thing, are really nice (and one of Boyd’s English essays did make him cry once)). It doesn’t occur to him to that maybe that was the point of the spell; to make him think before speaking. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been doing some reading,” Derek says, as the last of the pack filters out the door. “I think we can clear this up.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles settles himself on the arm of the couch, watching Derek fold his arms across his chest. “Shoot.”

“We just need to be truthful with one another,” Derek says. “I think that’s all the witch wanted.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “You think I wasn’t being truthful the other night, before she cursed us?”

“I think,” Derek says, choosing his words carefully, “that we were both irritated and perhaps not being _entirely_ truthful.”

Stiles is silent because Derek’s right; he didn’t really believe that Derek was bad at planning, or any of the other things he said. Mostly he been irritated they’d been caught, but also, Derek was _fun_ to argue with. He didn’t think that either of them believed the other meant what they were saying. “Okay,” he says finally. “You got me.”

“Okay,” Derek echoes. He spreads his hands apart like he’s trying to conjure something, and says, “You never mess up my plans.”

Stiles smiles faintly. “Well, you’re good at making them, dude. I wasn’t lying; you’re a much better alpha than you think you are.”

Derek looks like he’s truly pleased and is trying hard to hide it. “Well. I wasn’t _really_ irritated, I just—”

“Like picking on you,” Stiles finishes with a grin, and one side of Derek’s mouth quirks up. “Asshole,” he says, and laughs when Derek’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Guess that takes care of that,” Derek says.

“Good,” Stiles says, getting to his feet. “Glad we got that fixed before I said anything _really_ embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing like what?” Stiles doesn’t know how Derek can move so fast, but he’s suddenly right there in front of Stiles, looking faintly amused. “Did you cry at the end of _Titanic?”_

“There are two kinds of people in this world,” Stiles replies bravely, though his heart has started hammering in his chest. “Those who cry at the end of _Titanic_ , and liars.”

“Yeah?” Derek says, stepping closer. “What else didn’t you say?”

Stiles swallows a little desperately, his cheeks flushing with heat. “I like your eyes, dude, I told you. I like spending time with you, even if we’re tied up and getting a lecture on manners from a witch. I like your everything, really.”

“That’s good,” Derek says, “because I feel the same.” And he leans forward and kisses Stiles.

When they break apart some time later, Stiles feels like he’s blushing all the way down to his toes, but he feels better because Derek’s red too, his cheeks flushed a beautiful pink.

“Is this going to change things?” he asks.

“Same song,” Derek says. “Different tempo.”

“Oh, fuck _yeah.”_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating** : Teenish  
>  **Applicable Tags** : ??? too tired for this shizz

"You're going to love him," Lydia says from the bed.   
  
Stiles sighs as he buttons up his shirt. "You always say that."  
  
"And I'm always right," Lydia replies haughtily, pulling a compact mirror from her bag and checking her impeccably applied makeup. "I have exquisite taste. _You_ have a problem committing."  
  
"I do not," Stiles shoots back, fighting with his tie. "I just - the guys you set me up with are way out of my league."  
  
Lydia sighs and slips off the bed. "Maybe," she says pointed, pushing his hands aside so she can take charge of his tie, "you need to stop thinking of yourself as so inferior. You have a fulfilling job and you're a wonderful person who deserves happiness, right?" Lydia gives him one of her rare warm smiles and Stiles smiles back reluctantly.  
  
"If you say so."  
  
Lydia lightly smacks him on the cheek. "None of that self-deprecating crap. You're going to be funny and confident because that's who you _are."_  
  
Stiles smiles faintly and plants a kiss on Lydia's forehead, which had her ducking away and complaining about her foundation. "I knew you were my best friend for a reason."  
  
Lydia grins and say, "Don't let Scott hear you say that. He'll cry again."  
  
"A man can have two best friends," Stiles snorts, slipping on his suit jacket. He spreads his arms at Lydia. "How do I look?"  
  
-  
  
An hour later finds Stiles standing in front of the restaurant, anxiously fiddling with his cuffs. It's a new place, only recently opened, and it looks expensive, but Lydia assured him his date would take care of it. He doesn't know anything about the guy except his name; Lydia's sent him on so many failed blind dates that he's kind of stopped asking for information about the guys beforehand. He's already decided that this is the last time; if this date doesn't go well, he's going to take a break from the dating game for a while, maybe forever.  
  
A sleek black car pulls up to the curb and Stiles watches it idly. There's no way the man who emerges from the back is his date; he's about a twenty on a ten scale, all beautiful cheekbones and brooding eyebrows, and Stiles is like a six, maybe a seven in this expensive suit Lydia bought him. He fully expects some slim blonde supermodel to emerge from the car after him, but the man is alone. He looks vaguely familiar, and Stiles wonders if he's seen him before, modeling on a billboard maybe. The man bends to say something to the driver, then shuts the door and saunters directly over to Stiles who realizes that he's the only one in front of the restaurant.  
  
"Stiles?" the man queries with a faint smile, and his voice is like velvet on ice, not too deep, but it's got a rumble to it that Stiles swears he can feel in his bones.  
  
"Derek?" Stiles tries, and oh hell, was that _his_ voice that just went up about two octaves? He makes a mental note to kiss Lydia and then maybe kill her because she has really outdone herself this time and there is _no way_ this date is going to do anything but flop.  
  
Derek smiles again and nods toward the restaurant. "Shall we?"  
  
"Y-yeah," Stiles stammers and he can feel his fucking face going bright red. Fuck his body and its stupid betrayal. This night is going to end in tears.  
  
Inside, the hostess smiles at the two of them, but it's to Derek she says, "Welcome back, sir. Just the two of you?"  
  
Derek nods and Stiles thinks, _okay, wow, he's recognized here? He's a patron?_ Stiles isn't a patron anywhere except maybe the dollar-slice pizza place down the road from his apartment. This is around the moment when he starts feeling extremely inferior, not like he wasn't already feeling like shit because Derek's the hottest dude he's ever seen outside an underwear ad. People's heads are actually turning to stare at them as they're led across the restaurant.  
  
"So, you, um, come here often?" Stiles asks, after they've been seated at a table in a dimly lit corner. He picks at the edge of the menu and tries in vain to keep from jiggling his leg nervously.  
  
"My sister owns this place," Derek replies evenly, which probably explains why he's not looking at the menu. He's watching Stiles with an unreadable expression on his face, probably wondering what Lydia was thinking when she set them up. Stiles can feel his cheeks burning again.  
  
"Oh," he says. "That's awesome. Um. How do you know Lydia?"  
  
"Her firm represents a charity I work with," Derek says, smiling that faint smile again. This isn't unexpected; Lydia is a principle at a public relations firm, which is how she meets all the lawyers and business owners she's forever setting Stiles up with. "What about you?"  
  
"We went to high school together," Stiles replies. "I'm not sure why she keeps me around."  
  
"She's got a lot of life in her," Derek agrees and they share a quiet moment's reflection on the unstoppable force that is Lydia Martin.  
  
Things get a little easier after a glass of wine, which dulls Stiles' nerves a little. Unfortunately it also seems to dull his sense of grace and it's like his clumsiness, which had disappeared after high school, comes back in full force. He drops at least three forks and spills his water and spends a lot of the time apologizing profusely. Everything that could go wrong seems to, and Stiles doesn't think the red in his cheeks will ever go away. Derek doesn't say much but watches Stiles with a sort of bemused, pitying look, like the way you might watch an overturned turtle struggle to right itself. Stiles _wishes_ he was a turtle; then he could just pull his head inside his shell and hide from this whole mess.  
  
When he's not wrecking their table, their conversation doesn't go _too_ badly, though. Derek doesn't seem like he's a big talker, but he's got the type of dry wit that Stiles always finds himself drawn to. He looks startled every time Stiles laughs at something he's said, like he didn't realize it was possible to make people laugh, and Stiles finds it endearing. He seems happy to talk about the charity he works with - some kind of conservation area that rehabilitates wolves, which is cool. Stiles feels like there’s something that Derek’s not telling him – he looks uneasy when Stiles starts asking a lot of questions about his job, but that’s all right. Stiles is nervous too.  
  
Derek asks him what he does and Stiles flushes again, because being an elementary school teacher is nowhere nearly as cool as working with a wolf charity. Derek seems to disagree; he says, "Teachers aren't paid nearly well enough," which sends him and Stiles on lively discussion of the country's educational system. Stiles revises his earlier decision and comes to the conclusion that he's going to marry Lydia for setting this up. He doesn't know if it's possible to fall in love on a first date, but he's really fucking close.  
  
Things go south again when they finally leave the restaurant. Derek pays, firmly shaking his head when Stiles offers to split the bill (which is a secret relief because he's got a feeling this meal cost about as much as a month's rent and he's not sure he has that much in his bank account right now). They're leaving the restaurant and Stiles has just turned to make sure he hasn't left Derek behind when he clips a waiter just hard enough to send the man's armful of plates crashing to the ground. Everyone in the restaurant turns to stare and Stiles' face goes bright red.  
  
"I am so, so sorry," he says, dropping to his knees to help. The waiter rebuffs him, waving him away firmly, and Derek pulls him to his feet, leading him out of the restaurant.  
  
"Oh my god," Stiles groans, covering his face with his hands. "I'm just going to go home and get into bed and never get out again, okay? It was really nice meeting you but—”  
  
"Hey," Derek interrupts, catching one of Stiles' wrists and prying his hand away from his face. "It happens. I don't care."  
  
"No," Stiles says, trying to free his hand from Derek's grasp. "No, I just - I'm kind of inept, dude. You really don't want—”  
  
"Lydia warned me about this," Derek says, his grip unrelenting. "She said you'd try to get out of this."  
  
"Um, did you not see me in there?" Stiles asks, the needle in his head swinging back to point at _kill Lydia_. "I'm kind of a mess."  
  
"And I kind of don't care," Derek retorts, stepping closer. He slips his other hand around Stiles’ waist, smiling that faint smile.

“Last chance,” Stiles mutters, avoiding his eyes. “I mean, have you _seen_ yourself? You look like a model.”

“I play baseball, actually,” Derek tells him and adds casually, like it’s an afterthought, “for the Giants.”

Stiles blinks up at him, his mouth falling open. “Huh? _Oh._ You’re Derek _Hale.”_ It’s not like he follows sports or anything, but Derek’s been in the news lately for being the first major league player to come out while still in the league. Stiles had _thought_ Derek looked familiar. “Wow, you just – okay.”

“Is that a problem?” Derek asks. He looks a little worried, bless him. “Lydia said – she didn’t think you’d care.”

Stiles doesn’t, really; Lydia has set him up with lawyers, a state senator, even a couple of C-list celebrities (and _wow,_ those had been awful dates). He’s not impressed by money or power; he’s attracted to a good personality and, apparently, great bone structure. “No,” he says. “But look, I’m still going to head home—” Derek’s face falls and Stiles continues casually, “—but if I’m not crawling into bed alone, I’m cool with that.”

Derek grins then, full and sweet. “You sure you want to go to your place?” he asks casually. “I’ve got a Jacuzzi tub we can fool around in.”

_ “Sold,” _ Stiles grins. “Lead the way.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating** : General  
>  **Applicable tags** : Sheriff Stilinski POV, the sheriff finds out

The sheriff has just treated himself to a massive hamburger he definitely won't be telling Stiles about when the call comes over the radio: "Sheriff, we're getting reports of an 11-54, possible 459 in progress at your residence."   
  
"What?!" Sheriff Stilinski manages to spill his soda down his front in his scramble to reach for the radio and ignition at the same time. He’s already whipping out into traffic, siren wailing, as the voice in the radio feeds him more details.  
  
"Vehicle is a black Camaro, California plates eight echo delta—”  
  
The sheriff stops listening. He wants to throw up. He knows that car, and he knows Derek Hale can’t love him too much for arresting him not once but twice as a murder suspect, but he never thought - _Stiles_. The sheriff's stomach drops. Stiles is at home, or at least he said he would be, making dinner, and if he -  
  
The sheriff swallows tightly and picks up the radio. "All units, keep back until I can assess the situation. I repeat, do _not_ approach the house."  
  
He shuts off the siren as he approaches his neighborhood, and turns off the lights as he turns onto his street. He can see cruisers at the end of the block, waiting for his signal. Hale's car is parked haphazardly across the driveway, the driver's side door hanging open.  
  
The sheriff parks his cruiser a couple houses away and slips off down the sidewalk, drawing his gun. He can hear something inside the Camaro beeping, probably a warning that the keys are still in the ignition, but the car is empty.  
  
The sheriff slips around the sleek car and sidles up the side of Stiles' Jeep, eyes sweeping the front of the house for any movement. His heart almost stops when he notices the front door hanging open, a bloody handprint smeared across the white wood. There's more blood on the concrete walkway and up the stairs onto the porch, such quantities that the sheriff can smell it, coppery and thick.  
  
He takes the porch steps lightly, years of treading the boards teaching him exactly where to step so he doesn't make a sound. He pauses by the door because he can hear someone talking in the living room, low and steady, and his heart gives an off-beat thump, relief rushing through him when the voice registers as Stiles.  
  
“—okay, okay?" Stiles is saying. "Scott got it from Allison and he's on his way, okay? You're going to be fine."  
  
The sheriff listens, bewildered. What the hell is going on? Is Hale some kind of drug addict who's taken Stiles hostage, to use as a bargaining chip to get his fix? That doesn't sound like Stiles, and it doesn't sound like Scott, but then, he's been feeling like he doesn't know his son any more. He's always out at strange hours, acts shifty when the sheriff tries to ask him about his day. _Something’s_ going on and whatever it is, it sounds like it's coming to a head inside his goddamn living room.  
  
The sheriff takes a deep breath and quietly steps through the open door, keeping his back to the wall. He sidles sideways silently until he has a clear view and what he sees inside stops him in his tracks.  
  
It's not what he expected. It's so far from what he expected that he thinks maybe he's dreaming.  
  
There's his son, sitting on the edge of the couch and that's Derek Hale sprawled across the cushions but there's something wrong with his face. It's not his face that stops the sheriff, though, and it's not the way he's shirtless and appears to be bleeding black from a gunshot wound below his ribs. It's the way Hale's hand is curled around Stiles' bicep, the way his son is leaning forward, his hand pressed to Hale's cheek, the way his thumb sweeps back and forth across Hale's cheekbone. It's the way the two of them look together, clearly comfortable with each other even in a moment of panic, the way they reassure each other with a steady touch.  
  
It occurs to the sheriff that maybe he should have pressed harder when he asked questions, took fewer shifts, spent more time with his son, because he didn't even know his son was gay, let alone that he was apparently seeing a (cleared) murder suspect who also appears to be some kind of monster.  
  
It hurts his heart when Stiles turns his head and there are tears on his cheeks. He's not surprised when he sees the sheriff in the doorway, not angry or fearful. He just says, "Hey, Dad," and it's the most miserable the sheriff's ever heard him apart from the long, hard days after his wife's funeral.  
  
Those two words and that tone of voice tell the sheriff everything. He looks at Hale, who stares back silently. His face looks normal now, but he's sweating profusely and his eyes keep flaring red. There's fear in them, fear of him, fear of losing Stiles, and that tells the sheriff a lot too. He can be angry later; right now his son needs his help.  
  
"What do you need me to do?" the sheriff asks, holstering his gun. "Call an ambulance?"  
  
Stiles breathes out, long and shaky, and says, "No. Scott's on his way and we can fix this. We just - are there more cops outside?"  
  
The sheriff nods and Stiles asks, "Can you send them away? We're okay, really." It sounds like that last part is addressing both the sheriff and Hale, a statement of both comfort and assurance.  
  
But the sheriff nods and speaks into his radio, explaining to his deputies that it's all a mistake and no backup is needed. They won't believe him until he steps out into the porch and waves, and as they're driving away, he sees Scott pedaling furiously along on his bike. He's got his head down, so focused that he doesn't notice the sheriff standing on the porch until he's halfway up the steps. Scott freezes, clutching at the straps of his backpack.  
  
The sheriff sighs. "C'mon," he says. "Get in there and help."  
  
Scott smiles hesitantly and bounds past him. When the sheriff goes back into the living room, Scott's kneeling on the floor next to the couch, pulling the top off a bullet casing with his teeth. He stands in the doorway and watches Stiles press a hand to Hale's forehead, sweeping aside his sweat-dampened hair. Hale's eyes remain fixed on Stiles' face, watching his lips as he murmurs something comforting, his fingers curling around Stiles' thin wrist. The sheriff's heart aches because his son looks exactly like his dead wife, long fingers caring, mouth curved lovingly.  
  
He's not going to be angry, the sheriff decides. Whatever's going on here is long past the point where he has any right to be upset. He'll put the fear of God in Hale, if that's possible, but God knew the man has had a rough life. The sheriff can still remember breaking the news of the fire to him and his sister, and the absolutely silent, devastating way in which the kid had stared at the floor, tears rolling down his cheeks.  
  
Scott manages to get the cap off the bullet and pours a pile of what looks like dried herbs onto the coffee table. The sheriff frowns as he sets a lighter to it and the herbs turn to ash in a hailstorm of bright sparks.  
  
"You ready?" Stiles asks Hale softly, and the man nods, his mouth going tight. He’s pale, the couch cushions beneath him saturated with blood. The sheriff’s seen enough car crashes to know he’s not far from death and he wonders why he’s not doing to something to help. He feels disconnected from reality. These kids he thought he knew – it’s like he’s wandered onto a television set and he’s watching the actors play out their parts. It feels unreal when Scott brushes the ashes into his palm and shoves them into the wound in Hale’s chest. The man _howls_ , his body jackknifing on the couch, and the sheriff can’t help but take a step back at the way Hale’s face goes monstrous again, his mouth suddenly full of sharp teeth.

His son, though – Stiles doesn’t even flinch as Hale writhes around. He doesn’t look happy, but his movements are calm, sure. He slides his hands up Hale’s bare sides, speaking low and comforting, and after a long moment, Hale’s hands slide over his. The sheriff shudders at the way his fingernails are long and pointed, but even he can see the care that the man takes in keeping them away from Stiles’ skin.

For a long time there’s no sound in the room but Hale’s harsh breathing, which slowly evens and steadies. The sheriff’s not sure if his eyes are working, but the wound on Hale’s chest appears to be knitting itself shut. After a few minutes, there’s only tanned skin and drying blood.

“Okay,” the sheriff says softly, and Stiles turns with a look on his face like he’s been dreading this moment. “What is he?”

Stiles reaches behind him, his fingers interlacing with Hale’s. “He’s a werewolf.” He nods at Scott. “Scott too.”

The sheriff stares at him, nonplussed. He’d say something like _are you joking_ but he knows Stiles’ joking voice, and after everything he’s just seen, it seems plausible. After he stops to think about all the weird shit that happens in Beacon Hills, it seems more than plausible. The sheriff looks over at Scott, who gives him an apologetic smile, like _sorry we didn’t say anything sooner._ “Okay,” he says, and Stiles blinks like he expected a fight. “How long have you two been together?”

“Oh.” And _now_ his son’s cheeks go flushing red with color. “Um. A year, I think?” Stiles looks at Hale, who nods slowly, his eyes flickering between Stiles and the sheriff.

That stings a little, the sheriff has to admit, that his son’s been dating someone for a year and hasn’t bothered to tell his father about it. Though, he supposes, he hasn’t been doing much of a job as a father lately. “Okay,” the sheriff says again, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ve got to finish up my shift, but I’ll be back in a few hours.” A good thing, he thinks. He can park his cruiser in the speed trap on the edge of town and digest what’s just happened. How his son is gay and dating a werewolf. How werewolves are a thing. How he’s going to get the blood out the couch cushions.

The sheriff leaves his son and Scott and Hale – Derek, he guesses he needs to call him now – looking mystified. Fine. Let _them_ mull things over too. As he climbs into his cruiser, the sheriff decides _I deserve another hamburger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably my favorite so far, not gonna lie!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rating** : Explicit  
>  **Applicable Tags** : Heat cycles, Derek POV, Dubcon, Witches  
>  **Warning** : Dubcon. Consent is given but under magical duress.

"Tell me what's wrong with him," Derek says flatly. He's got an arm under Stiles' armpit, extended stiffly to both keep Stiles on his feet and away from him, because Stiles keeps trying to slump against him and Derek is _not_ having it. Scott's on Stiles' other side, mirroring Derek's position. He looks like he's going to be sick, which is probably to be expected when your best friend keeps trying to grind your hips together.   
  
Deaton doesn't look all too concerned. "You say it's wolfsbane?" He's looking at a damp splash on Stiles' shirt, but he's keeping his distance. Stiles has calmed somewhat since the ride over, but Derek won't tell Deaton he’s pretty sure it's because Stiles managed to get himself off by humping the Camaro while Derek and Scott were distracted with finishing off the witch. Now he stands loosely, shoulders slumped and mouth open slackly, panting.  
  
"Yes," Derek says, his jaw tightening. "I can smell it." There's a lot of other things he can smell, but he's not mentioning that either.  
  
"Hm," Deaton says, running a hand over his chin. "The potion appears to have kicked Stiles into an artificial heat."  
  
"Heat?" Scott sounds horrified.  
  
"Werewolves don't get heats," Derek snaps, his brow furrowing as Stiles tries to lean against him again.  
  
Derek pushes him upright as Deaton says, "That's not true. They only occur when two werewolves are in a committed relationship." _Which you haven’t had._ Deaton doesn't say that, but Derek hears the insinuation in his voice and curls his lip, letting his teeth show. Deaton shakes his head, unimpressed.

“That’s never happened to me before,” Scott says, and Deaton shakes his head again.

“It takes two wolves. The heat is a chemical reaction based on pheromones released by both parties. You wouldn’t get the same reaction from a wolf and a human.” Deaton gives Derek a long look. "My guess is that you were the target of this potion?"  
  
"Stiles jumped in front of me when the witch threw it," Derek admits moodily. "Idiot."  
  
Stiles makes a noise at that, halfway between a protest and a groan. It makes Derek's skin crawl. He hears Scott mutter, "Oh my god, shut _up."_  
  
"Well," Deaton says with a shrug. "Heats can last anywhere from twelve to seventy-two hours, but they usually fade within a day. Of course, this is usually dependent on the werewolves actually copulating, but—”

“Somebody has to have _sex_ with him?” Scott looks like he wants to gouge his eyes out.

Deaton gives him a faint smile. “That shouldn’t be necessary.”  
  
Derek sighs. Great, now he's stuck babysitting a teenager who is even more horny than usual.  
  
They leave the vet and drive to the Stilinski residence. Scott sits in the back, basically pinning Stiles to the seat in order to keep him from one, getting his hands down his pants, and two, grinding against Scott, who looks like he's about to cry. He keeps telling Derek to drive faster, but there's no way in hell Derek is speeding today; the _last_ thing he needs is to be pulled over by the sheriff. Derek can't imagine what he'd do if he found Stiles in this state, but it wouldn't be pretty.  
  
They manhandle Stiles inside the house and up to his room. He's cursing at them, dire insults and desperate pleas rolling off his tongue, which is somewhat encouraging, because for the first hour or so he was like a horny zombie, all impulse and no thought. Or maybe this is worse, Derek thinks, because he's _Stiles_ now, and Derek never expected to hear the dirty things coming out of his mouth. Dreamt of them, maybe, but never thought he'd hear Stiles moaning, with his lips red and shining, "Please, fuck, I need your cock, I need—”  
  
Derek slaps his hand over Stiles' mouth and tries not to shudder when Stiles does his best to make out with Derek’s hand. Instead he says to Scott, "We need to restrain him somehow."  
  
Stiles moans at the words and Derek definitely does _not_ start thinking about Stiles tied up and begging to be fucked. Scott blanches. "Why?"  
  
"You think he should be wandering around like this?" Derek retorts, giving Scott his best sarcastic eyebrow lift.  
  
"No," Scott mutters. "I think there are some zip ties in the basement. I'll go get them."  
  
"Hurry," Derek says. While Scott thunders down the stairs, Derek maneuvers Stiles over to the bed and gets him sitting. Stiles stubbornly pushes against him, trying to free his hands, but Derek's got a tight hold on him. Stiles goes limp for a minute and Derek _almost_ relaxes, but then Stiles leans forward and licks a long line up his forearm.  
  
It almost does Derek in. He's already on edge because he can _smell_ Stiles' erection and the way he's leaking into his underwear. He smells like electricity and a promise of good things to come. The wolf inside Derek is howling that this, this is our mate, and the feeling of Stiles' tongue dragging over his skin nearly breaks him. He's wanted Stiles for a long time, ached after those sweet lips and cheerful brown eyes, and this is the most obvious invitation he's ever received. Stiles smells like a bitch in heat, _his_ bitch, and he's ready to give in when Scott comes galloping back into the room.  
  
"Aw, dude, gross," Scott groans, and Derek's not sure who is being admonished; him or Stiles.  
  
Derek instead growls, "Fucking _help me_ ," and together they get Stiles pinned down on the bed, his hands tied to the bedposts. He twists and lifts his hips but there's nowhere to escape to, and Derek relaxes just a little.

“Do you think we should just leave him?” Scott asks, gnawing anxiously at a fingernail.

Derek sighs. “No,” he says. “Someone should probably watch him. You can go – you look traumatized enough.” Somehow he doesn’t think the next few hours are going to get any better.

Scott makes a disgusted face but says, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Derek sighs again. “I’ll just sit outside. I’ll be able to hear him if anything goes wrong.”

And that’s what he does. Scott leaves, looking grateful, and Derek slips out the back door and settles himself on the back steps. He can hear Stiles upstairs, whining through clenched teeth as he tries to free himself, but Derek can’t really smell him any more, which is _really, really_ good. He looks down at his hands, forces his claws to retract, and sighs again.

A couple of hours drift by. Stiles’ heartbeat hammers from upstairs, but it doesn’t get worse. The sun is warm and the day is cool and Derek drifts asleep without meaning to. When he wakes, it’s because there’s a pounding in his head and it takes him a moment to realize – _Stiles._ His heart is beating far too fast and Derek leaps to his feet, running inside. When he reaches Stiles’ room, he shifts without meaning to. Stiles’ scent lies in the air, so thick Derek can almost _see_ it, heavy with anxiety and panic but above all, thick with lust.

Derek snarls and fights the shift, forcing the fangs and claws to retract, for his features to shift back to normal. When he finally has himself under control, he looks for Stiles. The boy is still tied to the bed but he’s fighting the ties, back arching, feet digging against the mattress. He’s sobbing, edging on a panic attack, and he lifts his head when Derek comes into the room and pleads, “Derek, _please!”_

“Shh,” Derek soothes, breathing shallowly through his mouth. He sits on the edge of the bed, just out of Stiles’ reach, and decidedly does _not_ look at the bulge in Stiles’ jeans. He tentatively brushes his fingers across Stiles’ damp forehead and Stiles pushes his head against his hand like a cat, aching for touch. His skin is hot to the touch, slick with sweat. “Calm down,” Derek says gently. “Take a deep breath.”

Stiles tries; Derek can see him struggling. He coughs on a sob and groans, “It fucking _hurts_ , dude. Please let me go. _Please._ I need to—”

“That’s not going to make it any better,” Derek says uncomfortably. He takes his hand away and Stiles groans at the loss of contact. “It – I think only mating with someone will make it better.”

“Then _fuck me,”_ Stiles demands. “I don’t care, dude. I just want it to stop. I feel like I’m on fire.”

“I’m not going to do that,” Derek says, though that’s exactly what the wolf in his head is howling for. He wants it – he’s not going to lie to himself – but he won’t do that to Stiles. It’s not fair to either of them.

“Fuck you,” Stiles groans. He tries to twist, but he can’t even move far enough to rub off against the bed. “I fucking hate you, and I hate this.” He sniffs, and Derek can smell the sharp, salty smell of tears.

“I’m not,” Derek begins hesitantly. “You’re not you.”

“Of course I’m me,” Stiles snaps. He turns his head to glare at Derek, his eyes shining with tears. “I just can’t—” He heaves a frustrated sigh. “It’s like any other stupid bind you’ve had to get me out of, except it fucks up everything.”

Derek swallows. “Everything?”

Stiles turns his head away again, but Derek can see a tear slip down his cheek. “I know you think I’m annoying as fuck, but I really like you, dude.”

“You _are_ annoying,” Derek says tightly, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t like you.” He sees Stiles bite his lip and reaches out again, slowly sliding his hand up Stiles’ arm. Stiles shudders but his body stills, and Derek says, “I’m not going to fuck you. I’m not going to take that from you. But I’ll help you.”

Stiles nods slowly and shuts his eyes. Derek leans over him carefully and runs his hands over the long lines of Stiles’ body, feeling the way the muscles contract under his touch. He touches the top of Stiles’ jeans and asks, “You’re sure?”

“Please,” Stiles mumbles. Derek nods and unbuttons Stiles’ pants, listening to the boy’s breathing hitch, his hips twitching under Derek’s touch. He takes a slow, shallow breath and pulls down Stiles’ pants and underwear and suddenly the smell of him is a thousand times stronger. The wolf in his head howls longingly and Derek has to fight the shift again, breathing smoothly to keep the wolf at bay. 

Stiles’ cock smacks against his stomach, red and painful-looking, leaking precome against his skin. Derek swallows and glances up at Stiles, whose eyes remain closed, his lips parted. Stiles whines as Derek carefully touches his dick, running his fingers up the length of him. Derek curls his fingers around him and pumps him slowly. It’s only seconds before Stiles comes with a choked-off sob, his body arching under Derek’s touch, too close to the edge to last. Derek stares at the white streaks on his stomach and resists the wolf’s urge to lick Stiles clean, to taste his mate.

Instead he gets to his feet and goes to the bathroom, where he gets a damp cloth and fills a glass of water. He makes Stiles drink, then wipes the tears and sweat from his face and the come from his stomach. They don’t talk. Stiles’ breathing has steadied, but his eyes are glazed, far away. Derek watches him quietly, rubbing a comforting hand over his chest. 

It doesn’t take long before Stiles is hard again. The afternoon cycles through Derek jerking him off and quiet periods where they both just sit and breathe. Stiles barely reacts to coming after a while, his breath barely hitching. Derek hates that this is their first sexual encounter, hates what this is doing to Stiles. Stiles mumbles as much at some point late in the afternoon, when the shadows are beginning to lengthen. 

“Never wanted this,” he mutters. “Just wanted _you.”_

Derek licks his lips. He touches Stiles’ face, fingers tracing along his jaw line. “Neither did I,” he says quietly. “I don’t – I wanted to do this right. Take you out to dinner, make out at the movies.”

“Hopeless romantic,” Stiles murmurs, closing his eyes again. “Can you – will you let me go? I just want to feel you.”

Derek hesitates, then snaps the zip ties restraining Stiles. Stiles sighs softly and raises his arms, folding them around Derek’s neck. Derek shifts so he’s straddling Stiles and they kiss for the first time, slow and careful.

Some time later, after night has fallen, Stiles asks, “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

He’s much more lucid than he was earlier in the day. Derek thinks the heat is almost gone, which is a relief. They’re curled in Stiles’ bed and while Stiles is naked, Derek is still clothed. He refuses for this to become about _him_ ; his needs can wait. He thinks about the question Stiles has just posed to him instead. “I didn’t think you’d want me,” he says finally. “I…have a lot of issues.”

“Everyone deserves someone,” Stiles says, and he sounds miserable when he says it. Derek suspects he’s thinking about Scott and Allison’s fairy-tale romance. Derek presses his lips to the back of his neck and jerks him off again. 

It’s the last time. After that, all the heat seems to seep from Stiles’ body and he starts shivering. He twists around before Derek can do anything and presses right up against him, tucking his face into the curve of his neck. All the tension goes out of Derek and in his mind, the wolf curls up and goes to sleep. Derek follows slowly, his fingers sliding up and down Stiles’ spine, listening to the soft sound of his breathing. He doesn’t feel good about what he had to do that day, but Stiles still smells like electricity and good things to come, and he can’t help but believe that’s true.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Mature  
>  **Applicable Tags** : Derek POV, Established Relationship, bottom!Derek (very briefly)

Derek is happy.

It's not a foreign emotion to him, as much as the pack likes to joke that he's an emotionless robot. He knows happiness; there was a lot of it in his youth - adventures under the stars with his family, birthdays, a myriad of inside jokes and shared experiences with his siblings. People seem to forget that he _was_ normal once upon a time, or at least as normal as a born werewolf could get.

It's true, though, that he was unhappy for a long time. Losing everyone you love will do that to you. Stiles jokes that he missed his opportunity to become Batman, but he doesn't really mean it. Stiles lost his mom; he understands Derek better than most people.

Derek has reasons to be happy now. His pack is thriving. They survived their biggest test and successfully fended off the alpha pack without any loss of life, and the whole experience made them closer. It feels a lot like the way things did when Derek was a child. The pack is family now.

Then there's Stiles. Stiles was unexpected but he's the best thing that's ever happened to Derek. They've only been together three months - 'Officially," Stiles always grins, because there was some fooling around before that - but Derek already knows that he's in love. He thought he was in love before, with Kate, but that was a pale, weak thing compared to what he has with Stiles.

They make an odd pair. Stiles is twitchy and impulsive and quick to irritation, but he's also kind and completely unselfish. Everything he does he immerses himself in completely, whether it's training with the betas or researching the latest supernatural invader or settling onto his knees to give Derek a mind-blowing blow job. Derek is quieter. He thinks long and hard about things before acting upon any issue. He's still hesitant to trust anyone after Kate's betrayal, but he feels more comfortable in Stiles' presence than he has around anyone he's ever met.

Derek has spent the last few years fixing up the house and Stiles spends most of his time there. There are a lot of lazy mornings spent lounging in bed, and long afternoons laying in the shade of trees. They read books in the warm sunlight and Derek trusts Stiles enough to turn his head against his stomach and sleep there.

Stiles talks a lot, but when he and Derek are alone, there’s not much conversation. They don’t need it; both of them are comfortable in silence, and Stiles can read every expression Derek makes. When they do talk, Derek tells Stiles his problems, and the boy is a pro at picking them apart and figuring out a good solution. He takes Derek’s anger and pushes it out of him, his presence like a cool hand on a fevered brow.

Stiles is the reason Derek can laugh now. He peels back the hurt, burnt layers of him and pulls out the person he used to be, the boy who played baseball and swam on the swim team and read comic books and loved Dungeons & Dragons. Stiles laughs until he cries when he finds this out, but then he buys a handbook and ropes Boyd and Allison into playing with them. They go to see the latest superhero movie and argue about physics on the way home. It’s only a month into their relationship at that point, but Derek watches the curve of Stiles’ mouth as he waxes eloquent about Superman and flight mechanics and thinks _you saved me._ That night he lets Stiles push inside him, a new challenge for both of them, and it’s the best he’s ever felt.

Derek is happy but he’s losing control.

He notices it one night when they’re having sex. Stiles is laid out across his back, breathing harshly into his ear and Derek’s sliding toward the edge. He’s groaning into the pillow when he feels it; the shift’s trying to take hold of him, fangs forcing their way through his gums. Derek starts to panic; he’s never shifted while they were fucking. He has impeccable control; a lifetime as a werewolf has taught him how to control himself with ease. He doesn’t know what’s happening now and it worries him. Behind him, Stiles orgasms with a moan and sinks his teeth into the back of Derek’s neck. That’s enough for the wolf; he goes limp, his fangs receding, and curls in toward his stomach as he comes.

The next time it happens, he’s at Sunday morning breakfast at the sheriff’s house. Sheriff Stilinski knows – not about the werewolves, but about Derek and Stiles. The sheriff isn’t super happy about their relationship, but he seems to accept the lie that they waited until Stiles was eighteen – or he pretends to go along with it, anyway, for everyone’s sake. He doesn’t really trust Derek, which is fair enough, but he’s been slowly warming up to him since Derek’s started showing up and doing stuff around the house – innocuous things like mowing the yard and fixing the back door so it doesn’t swing open every time the wind blows.

This morning, though, Derek’s watching Stiles and his father have a tightly-worded exchange over colleges. The sheriff doesn’t want Derek following Stiles to whatever school he ends up choosing which – well, with all deference to the man, Derek’s going to do what he wants, which is to follow Stiles to the ends of the earth if he has to – and Stiles is growing increasingly frustrated. Derek listens to them snap at each other, the tension in the air growing palpable as he picks at his scrambled eggs and he suddenly realizes that he’s got claws, not fingernails.

Derek jerks his head up, alarmed, and finds Stiles staring at him, a bewildered expression on his face. Derek’s bewildered too, but he looks over at the sheriff and is relieved to find him glaring down at his plate. He swallowed and tries to focus on the anger that’s always boiling under his skin, but he can’t get a grasp on it. It’s like trying to grab a ghost. Stiles jerks his head toward the bathroom and Derek slips out of his seat with a muttered apology. He sits on the toilet and breathes steadily until the shift slips away and his claws retract. When he goes back into the kitchen, the fight’s over and Stiles is helping his dad wash the dishes. Derek doesn’t miss the worried look Stiles throws in his direction, though.

The third time it happens, they’re in the grocery store arguing over what kind of cereal to get. It’s not just the cereal, which is a stupid thing to argue about – it’s been a long week and Scott’s being stubborn again, which has Derek on edge. The fight about cereal pushes him just far enough and he snarls at Stiles and shifts into the full beta shift. Stiles, who is long past the point of being intimidated by him, hisses, “What the fuck do you think you’re _doing?”_

Derek looked down at his hands and mutters, “I don’t _know.”_

“Fuck,” Stiles snaps, and puts his arms around Derek’s neck, hiding his face. Derek clutches at him, balling his fists so his claws aren’t in sight. “Where’s your anchor, dude?”

“I can’t find it,” Derek mumbles. The anger’s not there any more. Stiles has soothed his wounds, pulled at his fury. The hurt’s still there – it always will be – but the rage that used to burn in his bones has faded. “What do I do?”

“You have to find something else,” Stiles says calmly, fingers curling against the back of his neck. It feels so strange – and a little stupid, standing in the middle of the grocery store like this. They’re probably attracting all sorts of strange looks, but Derek doesn’t dare lift his head to find out. “What was your anchor before the fire?”

“Family,” Derek breathes, and that’s it. It’s Stiles’ steady heartbeat and the gentle touch of his hands. It’s the firmness of his chest and the way Stiles smiles when he comes through the door and Derek’s there waiting for him. It’s the way they fit together like puzzle pieces, the way Stiles hums when he makes dinner, the way he doesn’t laugh when Derek goes pale during thunderstorms. It’s the way he’s not afraid of anything, the way he’s not ashamed of hugging his boyfriend in front of the Captain Crunch display.

Derek sighs shakily and when he unclenches his fists his fingernails are blunt and flat. He lifts his head and Stiles smiles faintly. “There you go,” he says softly. “Did you find something?”

Derek nods and cups Stiles’ face in his hands and presses his lips to Stiles’ forehead. “It’s you,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t need to see Stiles’ face to know he’s smiling. He sighs softly, content, and slips his hand into Stiles’. “C’mon, Batman,” he says. “You pick the cereal today.”

Stiles beams at him, his grip on Derek’s hand tightening. “I get to be Batman today, huh? Guess that means you’re wearing the green undies.”

Derek grins lazily. “Should we head home so you can find out?”

“Oh ho,” Stiles says, leaning into him as they walk down the aisle. “Game _on.”_


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame for this lies solely on [Renqa](2amsugarrush.tumblr.com), [literaryoblivion](http://literaryoblivion.tumblr.com/), that anon who gave me the prompt of Derek in red underwear, and [this gif set](http://takeshii.tumblr.com/post/52245851352/fixed-it). 
> 
>  **Rating** : Explicit  
>  **Applicable Tags** : stripper!Derek

“No,” Stiles says. “No, no, c’mon, guys, it’s _demeaning—”_

“It’s your birthday, dude,” Scott says with a grin, at the same time Isaac says, “It’s just a job for them. Lighten up.” 

“Ha ha,” Stiles says forcefully, carefully keeping his head down so he doesn’t make eye contact with anyone here, employees and clients alike. The music is loud and the place is dark, but he really doesn’t want anyone’s attention. “Now, there, you see—”

“Here’s Lydia,” Scott cuts through him cheerfully, and there _is_ Lydia, slipping her way through the crowded floor with a firm smile on her face and a drink in each hand. 

“Drink,” she says upon arrival at their table, shoving one of the glasses into Stiles’ face. He takes it reluctantly. “Drink,” Lydia insists. “It’ll loosen you up.”

“I don’t wanna be loosened up,” Stiles mutters rebelliously, but takes a sip of the drink. It tastes like cheap rum and coke. At least the sharp smell of it somewhat covers the slightly sweet, cloying smell that’s hanging in the air. He takes another sip and asks, “Where did Boyd and Erica go?”

Lydia jerks a thumb toward the open floor, where Erica’s grinding between Boyd and one of the dancers and they look like they’re about two minutes away from having a threesome right there on the floor. Stiles makes a face and takes a longer sip. He’s pretty sure Lydia made this a double, because he tastes a lot more rum than he does coke. 

“Okay,” Lydia says, when he’s nearly finished with the drink. “We bought you a dance.”

 _“What?”_ Stiles groans. “No, I don’t—”

“Birthday,” Isaac says and Allison, sandwiched between Isaac and Scott, giggles. 

“You are sexually repressed,” Lydia tells Stiles sternly, and he half expects her to start shaking a finger in his face, “and you need to lighten up. I found you a really nice guy.”

“Really?” Stiles protests. “C’mon, guys. I’m not – I know people—”

“Not cutting it,” Lydia says, and grabs him by the wrist. 

“Happy birthday!” Scott calls after them. 

Stiles could resist. Stiles _should_ resist, but he doesn’t because one: if he tries, Lydia will probably stab him through the foot with her stilettos; two: he might fall over if he pulls too hard, because he already had three drinks at the bar before they came here; and three: he kind of _is_ sexually repressed, as shitty as it is to admit it, and it’s kind of sweet that they bought him a private dance, because this is one of the nicer strip clubs in the city, and it was probably expensive. 

“Here’s the birthday boy,” Lydia says cheerfully, announcing their arrival to a bouncer standing in front of a doorway. The man nods, takes the nearly empty drink from Stiles’ hands, and shows him down a hallway. Stiles is suddenly nervous again because even though there’s music booming down the hallway, he can hear muffled sounds coming from behind the closed doors that sound like a lot more than dancing and he – that’s not _legal_ , is it? He’s fine with coming in his pants if it comes to it, but did his friends really think he’d have sex with a stranger?

His palms are sweating by the time the bouncer points him into an open room and shuts the door behind him. It’s empty except for a chair in the middle of the dimly lit floor and that’s kind of a relief – no gross couch or bed. He sits in the chair tentatively, and waits. 

The room is somewhat warm and he’s sweating faintly, partially from the heat, partially from nerves. It’s loud – there’s a speaker in the ceiling that’s blasting a terrible remix of an equally terrible pop song. He stares at the door, waiting anxiously, and nearly jumps out of his skin when a hand slides over his shoulder and curls under his chin, forcing him to tilt his head back. 

Apparently there’s a second door he didn’t see, because there’s a man standing over Stiles now and god bless Lydia because she knows exactly what he liked in guys and this dude is _everything_ – cutting cheekbones and dark stubble and pale eyes and _unf_. He draws his thumb along Stiles’ bottom lip and says, just loud enough to be heard over the music, “What’s your name?”

“Stiles,” he replies weakly and holy shit he’s as bad as a fucking teenager because he’s already getting hard.

“Stiles,” the man repeats and he smiles very faintly. He steps around to the front of the chair, not taking his hand off Stiles’ face. Stiles’ eyes rake up and down him and it’s even better now that he can see all of him, because he’s broad and muscular and apparently there’s no wasting time here because all he’s wearing is a pair of red silk boxer-briefs that cling so tight they look like they’ve been _painted_ on. They don’t leave anything to the imagination and Stiles can’t help licking his lips. 

“Like what you see?” the man murmurs, taking a step back and spreading his hands slightly, like _this is what you paid for._ He turns slowly, keeping his pale eyes fixed on Stiles’ until the last moment and now Stiles gets to stare at his unfairly muscular back and tight, perfectly formed ass. 

“Fuck,” Stiles says, very quietly, and if he wasn’t hard before, he is now, as the man starts to dance. It’s slow and sinuous and doesn’t match the beat of the music at all, like the man’s got his own band playing in his head. It’s graceful and hot and when he turns again, his eyes immediately fix back onto Stiles’ and Stiles can’t look away, can’t even blink. The dancer takes a step forward, and then again, until he’s straddling Stiles’ thighs and still his hips wind and writhe and the dance of that red underwear is hypnotic. He puts a hand under Stiles’ chin again, and Stiles can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips, pulsing much faster than the speed of his dance.

“W-what’s your name?” Stiles manages, and the man pauses for just a moment. 

“Derek,” he replies, and Stiles thinks he’s telling the truth. It’s not much of a stage name, unless he calls himself Derek Danger, or – or something like that. 

“Derek,” Stiles repeats, like he repeated Stiles’ name, and his hands fist at his sides. Derek’s body is just centimeters from his and he can feel the heat of it. He wants to touch – and not just touch, but mouth, bite, tongue, taste – but he doesn’t dare. Derek solves his dilemma by sliding a hand down his arm and wrapping his fingers around Stiles’ wrist. He brings Stiles’ hand to his face and, very deliberately, run his tongue down Stiles’ pointer finger. Stiles makes a choked noise that Derek seems to take as encouragement, because he slides his lips around Stiles’ finger, his tongue sliding across his fingertip. 

“Fuck,” Stiles says again and tentatively puts his free hand on Derek’s thigh. Derek looks down at him, the corners of his mouth curling up encouragingly, and Stiles bites his lip. Derek releases his finger with an obscene noise and settles onto Stiles’ lap, slipping one hand around to cup the back of his head. His hips never stop moving, grinding against Stiles with a fervor and rhythm that leaves him gasping. Derek’s hard too, which is weirdly gratifying, the front of his underwear turning maroon from precome. Stiles wishes he could taste it.

“So I hear it’s your birthday,” Derek says smoothly and the intensity of his pale gaze should be intimidating but it’s not – it just makes the blood boil below the surface of Stiles’ skin. He feels trapped in the best way possible. Derek smiles his faint smile and trails a finger along the line of his jaw. “What do you want?”

Stiles swallows. “I don’t, uh. World peace? I don’t know.”

Derek smiles again. “Nothing else?”

“I, um—” Stiles loses his words when Derek reaches between them, easily unbuttoning his pants. “Oh,” he adds, as Derek slips a hand into his boxers and curl around his dick. His hands move without thinking, fingernails digging into Derek’s firm ass and Derek loses his careful control. He hisses and smashes his mouth again Stiles’ and they kiss sloppily while Derek pushes Stiles’ pants down around his thighs and jerks him roughly. Stiles groans into Derek’s mouth and does his damnedest to fight back, running his fingers over the tented from of Derek’s underwear, feeling the dampness of the silk beneath his fingertips. Derek arches into his touch, swearing furiously. When he gets Derek’s cock in his hand, it’s a no holds barred race to the finish, full of hot, furious touches, sharp bites, unconstrained moans. 

When Stiles comes, it’s with Derek sucking a bruise into the side of his neck, one hand fisted in his hair, the other milking every drop of come from his body. Stiles bucks against him but doesn’t stop his hand pumping and soon Derek’s jerking against him, his forehead pressed to Stiles’ chest. 

They come down from the high of orgasm slowly. Stiles touches the back of Derek’s neck with his unsoiled hand and Derek lifts his head. “Happy birthday,” he says. 

“I didn’t even want to be here,” Stiles admits, and Derek grins. 

“I know,” he says. “Saw you come in. Asked your friend if you’d want a dance.”

Stiles looks down at their stomachs, slick with come. “Oh. Do I – do I owe you a tip?”

Derek gets to his feet and slips his underwear back up around his hips. “Consider this one a present,” he says, smiling faintly. “Though if you really want to tip, I’m done at midnight.”

“Oh?” Stiles looks up at him and sees the look on his face. _“Oh.”_


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt fill, just a little thing about gardens.

The sun is bright over Beacon Hills, the day hot and hazy. The AC in the Jeep is broken after its trip through the warehouse wall and into Jackson, and Stiles couldn't afford to fix it after all the other shit he had to pay for just to get it running again. Stiles has the windows down, but the hot breeze just shuffles the air around and he's sweating just sitting there. He can feel the sweat rolling down his back and if that's not an uncomfortable sensation he doesn't know what is. 

It's been a month since Gerard and Jackson and everything else that could have gone wrong (and did). His dad's talking to him again, though Stiles catches him giving him these long, unhappy looks, like he knows Stiles is lying about something. His dad's not stupid; he's the sheriff for a reason. He's going to figure out what's going on eventually.

Stiles sighs as he leaves the houses behind and heads into the preserve, the Jeep's frame creaking as it bounces over the rough road. It's cooler here, under the trees, but it doesn't help much. A thunderstorm would be good; it'd break the endless cycle of heat. It's been days since it rained. The whole state's under a no-burn notice, which is a pity, because there's nothing better than sitting around a bonfire at night, even when it's hot as balls out. 

The Hale house appears through the trees and Stiles sighs again. He's been helping Derek and Isaac try to find Boyd and Erica and the search for clues has dried up as fast as the pond out beyond the preserve. Scott doesn't know; he's been on his whole self-improvement kick and Derek seems reluctant to get him involved anyway. He certainly didn't want Stiles' help, but Stiles was the one who told him about seeing Boyd and Erica in the basement of the Argent's house, all tied up and shot full of arrows. He forces his way into the search party, whether Derek likes it or not. Derek doesn't seem to understand why he's there, and Stiles isn't sure himself - Erica knocked him out cold with a piece of his own Jeep, and Boyd seems all right, but they're not friends. 

Stiles pulls up to the front of the house, slamming the Jeep into park. There's a notice on the front door alerting anyone concerned that the place is condemned and has been reclaimed by the county, but Stiles breezes right past it. "Derek?" he calls, dropping his bag on the floor. There's no reply from within and Stiles wanders through the empty husk of the first floor before spotting movement outside. He steps out onto the sagging back porch to see Derek in the back yard. He's got a shovel and he's hacking at the ground. 

"What are you doing?" Stiles asks, ninety-percent sure the answer's going to be _digging your grave_ , because Derek can be sarcastic like that. 

Derek pauses, turning to look at Stiles, and his face is sweaty and streaked with dirt. "Gardening," he says, and then turns back around like that's the most normal thing in the world. 

Stiles blinks. _"Gardening?"_ He jumps off the back porch and wanders over to Derek, hands shoved into his pockets. "Dude, I thought we were supposed to be looking for people."

Derek shrugs, his mouth going thin. "There are no leads," he says. "I have to do something."

"And that something is gardening."

Derek sighs exasperatedly. "Is that a problem?"

Stiles shrugs his shoulders, not taking his hands from his pockets. "You can't even live here anymore and you're putting in a garden?"

"The loft doesn't exactly have the place for it," Derek snaps. 

"Okay, okay," Stiles says defensively. "But I - I'm just curious. Why gardening?"

Derek breathes in deeply and Stiles takes a step backward, a little worried he's about to get his head bitten off. But Derek just exhales and says, "It's peaceful."

"Oh," Stiles says, blinking. "That - that's cool."

Derek watches him for a moment, like he's waiting for more questions, then starts digging at the ground again. Stiles stares at him for a few minutes, then shakes his head like he's coming out of a dream and says, "Well, if there's no news, I'm going to head home. See you around?"

"Mm," Derek says, like that's any sort of answer. Stiles shrugs again and heads for the Jeep. When he gets home, he doesn't get out of the car immediately; he sits for a while, thinking. 

-

When Stiles heads over to the Hale house a few days later, he finds Derek sitting on the back porch, drinking from a water bottle. Stiles stops next to him and looks at the backyard, vaguely impressed. Derek's got several beds cut into the lawn. They don't look like much, but they're something, he supposes. 

"Do you know what you're doing?" Stiles asks Derek, who frowns up at him, then frowns at the backyard. 

"I worked as a landscaper when we lived in New York," he replies. 

"Good," Stiles says. "I brought you some stuff."

Derek looks up at him sharply. "What stuff?"

"C'mon," Stiles replies, stepping back toward the house and gesturing at Derek to follow. The alpha exhales irritably and follows Stiles out to the Jeep. He opens the back and gestures at the equipment in the back, feeling suddenly embarrassed. "It's for you, if you want to use it."

Derek stares in at the trowels and rakes, bags of potting soil and mulch, even a pail full of assorted flower bulbs. There's stuff that Stiles has no idea what it is, but looked vaguely gardening-related so he grabbed it. "Where did this all come from?" Derek asks, still frowning. 

"Our shed," Stiles says uncomfortably. "It - my mom was really into gardening. Dad and I - we don't have time. You're welcome to have it."

Derek's face softens slightly, his frown disappearing. "Thanks."

"There's more at home," Stiles offers. "If you want it."

Derek turns his pale eyes on Stiles. "This is more than enough," he says, and he sounds more sincere than Stiles has ever heard him. "Thank you." 

Stiles helps him carry everything into the house and out onto the back porch, and when they've brought everything out, they're silent for a long moment, looking at the backyard. Then Derek turns to him and says slowly, "You want to help?"

-

Somehow, it becomes a thing they do. Every couple of days, Stiles meets Derek at the Hale house and they spend a lot of time on their hands and knees (Stiles can't think about that for too long - too many dirty jokes possible) in the dirt, and Derek quietly teaches Stiles a lot about soil types and planting zones and shade and light. Derek doesn't seem to mind talking when he's distracted and he offers small pieces of information about himself - that there were gardens back here before, that his mom used to come out every morning before breakfast and take care of her plants. He points to the base of the porch and says there used to be an herb garden there and his dad grew five different kinds of wolfsbane just to have on hand in case of poisoning. There are maple trees around the house and Derek says that his parents planted one every time a child was born into the family. Derek's tree is as thick around as Stiles' thigh, a crown of leaves almost as tall as the house. Laura's tree is split down the middle and Derek says it got struck by lightning a couple months before the house burned down. They kind of look sideways at each other after he says it, and neither points out the obvious coincidence. 

Stiles offers his own stories in return. He brings sandwiches from the Italian deli on Birch Street and they sit on the back porch and Stiles tells Derek about his mom's vegetable garden. She used to come home from work and pour herself a cup of coffee and walk among her plants, picking insects off leaves and inspecting vines. She grew a carrot as long as Stiles' forearm once, and won a ribbon at the county fair. Stiles catches himself before he says, "I miss her," out loud, but Derek seems to get it anyway; he bumps his shoulder against Stiles' and gathers up their trash. Stiles buys Derek a pair of flowery pink gardening gloves as a joke and Derek shoves a handful of wet dirt down the back of his shirt. 

Some days, Stiles gets to the house and Derek is waiting for him while Isaac lurks in the background. They spend long days trudging through the woods and peering into warehouses because Derek's heard a rumor, or Isaac's picked up a scent. It never pans out, though, and there are a lot of frustrated sighs. It occurs to Stiles, though, that they wait for him to arrive before following up on their leads, and for someone who so vehemently didn't want him around, Derek seems to be making a lot of effort to be sure he's in the know. And that's something, Stiles thinks, and tries not to notice the way his stomach goes warm. 

The summer wears on, and there's less to do in the garden once they have everything planted. They water and weed, but there's long stretches of nothing. They go to the pond on a day so hot all the birds stop singing, and the pond is lukewarm but it's better than nothing. Derek does elegant flips off rocks and Stiles spits water into his ear, which has Derek shifting with a snarl. He picks Stiles up bodily and throws him as far as he can. His violence backfires on Derek, because Stiles surfaces with a laugh and pulls at Derek's arms, begging him to do it again. Stiles thinks Derek's trying not to smile when he throws him again. 

They end up at Derek's loft one rainy night because Stiles slices his leg open on a piece of metal while they search an old factory. He's had enough trips to the hospital to warrant an instant call to his father anytime he shows up, and Derek says he can take care of it, so Derek helps him hobble into the loft and he sits on the horrible blue velvet couch Derek found somewhere. He tries to think about how tacky the couch looks and not how his leg is across Derek's lap so Derek can stitch it up, and not even the pull of the needle through his skin can distract him from the gentle way Derek holds his leg in place. 

Derek tells him to keep his leg elevated and disappears. When he comes back he has a laptop (and where Derek is procuring these possessions from is a good question) and the fact that he has something as mundane as a Netflix account has Stiles giggling, but they watch a David Attenborough film and Stiles falls asleep. When he wakes, it's Derek who's leaning against him, face relaxed in slumber. 

A couple of days later they sit on the back porch of the old Hale house, watching a steady rain fall. It's quiet except of the hiss of the rain and soft sound of water hitting the maple leaves above them. Stiles doesn't look at Derek, but he can still feel the place on his shoulder where Derek's head rested and he moves hesitantly, putting his hand over Derek's. Derek turns his pale eyes to Stiles and he doesn't say a word, but he doesn't move his hand away, either. 

Two weeks later, Stiles will lose his virginity on the greying planks of the back porch, arching under the heat of Derek's touch. They will go for long drives into the mountains, where they will spread a blanket on the ground and look at the stars. They will have a campfire, despite the no-burn notice, and eat hotdogs and marshmallows until the sun rises. Derek will sneak through Stiles' window and slip into his bed so they wake in the morning hot and sticky but together. There will be more days at the lake, more hours on the porch, more time spent on their knees in the dirt with sweat running down their backs. 

When August ends and school rolls around, Stiles will reluctantly say, "I think we should stop," and Derek will say, "No. I've given up enough. I'm not giving you up too," and Stiles will smile all over his freckled face. They will walk through their garden and laugh at an inappropriately shaped cucumber and sink their teeth into ripe tomatoes. 

But for now they sit and listen to the rain, fingers clasped tight, and Stiles leans against Derek's side. It's quiet for now. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to the previous chapter.
> 
> Rating: Explicit  
> Applicable tags: Underage, Derek POV

It's an early evening in the middle of August and Derek sits in the shade of Cora's maple tree. He has a book in his hands but he's not really reading; most of his attention is focused on Stiles, who is wandering around the garden and laughing occasionally, sounding extremely pleased with himself. Derek idly wonders what he's up to, because Stiles' mind never stops working, but he sounds happy, so Derek doesn't wonder too much.   
  
It's been two and a half months since Stiles showed up with a load of gardening supplies. Derek doesn't know what made him ask Stiles if he wanted to help, unless it was the memory of being out in the backyard helping his parents garden, remembering how close they felt. Unless it was because he's been tangled up with Stiles since the day Stiles climbed into the front seat of his father's cruiser and huffed, "I'm not afraid of you," and Derek - Derek had leaned forward and breathed in the smell of fear and Twizzlers and sweat and that scent has never left his head, not entirely. It followed him through the fight with Peter, through the hours spent floating in the high school pool, through the kanima and Argent, and it's here now, wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak. Stiles' scent hasn't changed, though he no longer smells like fear, and only sometimes of sweat, which is fine with Derek because it usually means he'll get the chance to lick it off him later.[[MORE]]

It's been a long time since Derek felt so...human. After the fire, he and Laura stopped living in a way, moving through life on automatic. And after Peter killed Laura, there was nothing left for Derek except this stupid obligation to a bunch of teenagers. He'd always thought that once things were cleared up in Beacon Hills, he'd probably head back to New York, even thought he hates New York almost as much as California. Now, even if the alpha pack wasn't looming on the horizon, he's not sure he'd go. Stiles is good for him; he questions everything Derek does, which makes Derek think carefully about his plans so he can defend them when Stiles tries to pick them apart. His laughter is infectious; Derek's done more smiling in the last month than he has in the last six years. He has _reasons_ to smile, _reasons_ to be happy.

Derek feels guilty about this, for various reasons. It doesn't feel right to be so rich in life when Boyd and Erica are missing. Stiles is only sixteen, a fact Derek deliberately ignores most of the time, but he can't help feel like he's stealing something from Stiles sometimes, no matter how vehement Stiles is about consent.   
  
"You okay, dude?"   
  
Derek looks up to see Stiles standing over him, his pale skin painted warm in the fading light of the sun. He looks like he's trying to swallow a shit-eating grin and failing miserably. Derek can't help the way one side of his mouth quirks up in response.   
  
"I'm fine," he says, and that's mostly true.   
  
Isaac knows about them - there's no way he could not, with the way the loft reeks of Derek and Stiles and sex. He's the only one, though; Peter is not welcome and Derek's fairly certain Stiles has not told Scott because if he had, Derek's also fairly certain Scott would have showed up by now to throw a hissy fit. He doesn't know whether to be hurt or relieved by this, and if he thought this was going to be a long-term thing, he'd have brought it up by now, but this thing they have is not going to last.   
  
Not because Derek doesn't want it to, but he's pretty sure he'll be dead by Christmas. He hasn't seen the alphas, has no idea how many there are, but just one on the loose had been difficult enough, and if the rumors are true, defeating them is going to be near impossible. He can feel the tension gathering in the air like a storm far off in the distance, and he knows he's going to end up dead before long - though whether it's from the alpha pack or whether it's Peter snapping again is a toss-up.   
  
"You sure?" Stiles asks. "Because you've got this look on your face like someone killed your dog."   
  
Derek scowls up at him and replies, "I don't have a dog."   
  
Stiles smiles easily. "Well, now that you live somewhere with an actual roof, maybe you should think about getting one."   
  
Derek shakes his head. "No."   
  
Stiles huffs. "Jerk."   
  
"What are you hiding behind your back?" Derek returns, rolling his eyes.   
  
Stiles grins again. "I made you something," he says, and pulls a crown made of flowers from behind his back.   
  
Derek narrows his eyes at it. "You picked these out of the garden." He sees azaleas, morning glories, babies breath, daisies, and big heavy chrysanthemums, all plucked from the bushes they so carefully cultivated, and carefully woven into a circlet of brilliant color and heady fragrance.   
  
"Top-notch detecting, Sherlock," Stiles retorts and he drops to his knees, settling down onto Derek's thigh. Derek sets his book aside, letting his hands land lightly on Stiles' hips. "What's the point of planting them if we're not going to do anything with them?"   
  
"They're for looking at," Derek replies dryly.   
  
Stiles snorts. "So now I can look at them _and_ your ugly face. Now c'mon, let me crown you king."   
  
Derek snaps his teeth but lowers his head obligingly so Stiles can set the flower chain on his head. Stiles snorts again and says, "You look like an elf."   
  
Derek lifts his eyes to Stiles' face and thinks he's the one who looks elven, with his soft lips and ruddy cheeks, eyes glowing with life. "Is that what I am?" Derek asks. "King of the elves?"   
  
"I dunno," Stiles replies, his hands lingering at the sides of Derek's face. He presses his thumbs against the sharp lines of Derek's cheekbones. "Is there werewolf royalty? Sacred bloodlines? Ruler of the underworld, something like that?"   
  
Derek rolls his eyes again. "There's no werewolf royalty, Stiles."   
  
"Hm." Stiles looks thoughtful and Derek lets his eyes drift half shut, anchored by the touch of Stiles' hands. "So there's no werewolf bigwig? No emperor that tells you all what to do?"   
  
"No," Derek says quietly. He slips his hands under Stiles' shirt, seeking the warmth of his skin. His hands are rough from the days in the garden, and the pads of his fingers catch against Stiles' smooth stomach, making the boy's breath hitch. "I voted for the president just like everyone else."   
  
"Oh, god," Stiles says weakly, his hands falling to Derek's shoulders. "Please don't tell me you voted for Romney."   
  
"Ron Paul," Derek lies, because he knows it'll piss Stiles off.   
  
"Gross," Stiles mutters, shuddering as Derek leans forward to attach his mouth to the base of his neck, tongue laving over the thin skin of his collarbone. His skin is warm and tastes like sunshine and hot air, tacky from a long day of heat and sweat.   
  
Stiles hums quietly and digs his fingers into Derek's shoulder blades and Derek thinks of last night, when Stiles slid inside him for the first time and Derek came so hard he saw stars. He thinks about how three months ago the last thing he wanted was to be around the boy and how now it doesn't feel right if they don't wake up together. He thinks about how strong Stiles has become, confidence swelling as he grows into himself, and how much Derek wants to hold onto him forever.   
  
"Stop thinking," Stiles says quietly, and Derek realizes he's gone still, open mouth pressing against Stiles' throat.   
  
"Sorry," he mumbles, and licks up the side of Stiles' throat in apology.   
  
The twilight is quiet and the woods are dark, fireflies beginning to flicker in the shadows. Stiles slips off his pants and underwear and rides Derek slow and easy in the silence, hiding his breathy noises in the crook of Derek's neck. The silence here is like that of a church and neither wants to be the sacrilegious one that breaks it. Derek covers Stiles' mouth with his when he starts getting too loud, swallowing his moans with greed, like a man starved for air.   
  
It doesn't feel right, having sex on the back lawn under the shadows of his ruined home, but at the same time it's perfect, the tension of Stiles' fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulder, the steady pulse of their hearts, the red light of the setting sun turning Stiles' eyes to liquid gold.   
  
Derek is selfish, he knows, but if he's going to die, it's going to be with this memory burned into his eyelids, this perfect day in the garden of Eden.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of the gardening verse, though we're move out of summer and into the school year. This little bit takes place right after the end of S03E03. 
> 
> Rating: General  
> Applicable Tags: Derek POV

Stiles is waiting when Derek comes home, in a light slumber with his back against the door to the loft. Derek sees him, hears his heartbeat before he's even rounded the last turn of the stairs, and for a moment, all the weariness and pain inflicted upon him by one very long night lifts because there is Stiles, reassuringly whole and uninjured. He smells sad. Scott told Derek that a friend of his had died, and there's Erica (and fuck, he had being doing such a good job _not_ thinking about Erica). Derek understands his sadness too well.

He kneels, slides a hand against Stiles' cheek, and the boy's eyes flicker open. Stiles smiles before he's quite focused on him and Derek smiles back, the smile he was unable to locate for the teacher he pulled from the boiler room pulled from him now like a loose tooth, swift and painless. Stiles blinks slowly and then seems to really _look_ at Derek, because his breath hisses between his teeth and he says, "Fucking _Christ,_ Derek!"

"It's not as bad as it looks," Derek replies quickly, quietly, which is mostly true at this point. All but the deepest claw marks have healed now, but his skin is caked with blood and it itches, pulling at his skin. "Stiles, you should go home and sleep. You have to go to school."

Stiles shakes his head, blinking sleepily. "No," he says, with a flare of unhappiness. "Because Heather - Dad said I don't - I'm not going today."

Derek nods quietly, and some of the night's hurt is worn away by the thought that Stiles came _here_ , to _him_ , when there were so many other important people in his life he could have gone to first. He tries not to let that weigh on his shoulders, to let himself think that Stiles is just another person he's going to fail to protect in the end. Derek tries not to think about how he's going to end up dead sooner rather than later, and how he wishes he could say something like _I love you_ without knowing it'd be  a terrible burden on Stiles a couple of months down the road. Instead, he takes Stiles' hand and pulls him to his feet. 

He can feel the weariness seeping into his bones, smells it on Stiles, but he needs to get clean because it's not just his blood on him - it's from Erica and Boyd and Cora and _god,_ his sister's alive. His sister's alive but Erica's dead and his pack nearly killed him tonight and he nearly let them. There's so much going on in his head that he's grateful when Stiles takes control, tugs him into the bathroom, and pushes him down to sit on the toilet while he draws a hot bath. Derek lets Stiles strip him, helpfully lifts his arms so Stiles can pull off his shirt, which is ripped to pieces and smells like sweat and death. He pushes his face into Stiles' neck while Stiles gently touches at the slowly healing lines scored across his chest and for a long moment he just _breathes_. And Stiles lets him and if that's not another fucking stab to the heart, because they _know_ each other now, intimate in more ways than one, and it hurts that he's going to lose this eventually.

Stiles gets him into the bath, and Derek leans into his hands as they scrub away the blood and dirt and sweat. It's so quiet in the bathroom, just the gentle slough of the water, and Derek thinks about how they should have gone to the ocean this summer. It would have been nice to get a cabin on the coast somewhere, where they could have woken each morning to the sound of gulls and water hitting the shore. If he makes it through another month, he decides, he's going to do it; he'll steal Stiles away and take them on vacation. It couldn't make anything much worse.

Before he knows it, Stiles is urging him to stand and when he does, Stiles wraps him in a towel and ends up with his arms wrapped around Derek too, his upturned nose pressed against Derek's jaw. Derek closes his eyes and listens to the healthy thrum of Stiles' heart while the warm bathwater drains around his ankles. It's the closest to peace he's had in days, and the closest he'll have for the foreseeable future. It'll be enough, he thinks. 

Stiles lets go of him eventually, only to take him by the hand and lead him out into the loft. He turns back the sheets and Derek shucks the towel to the floor and crawls into bed. He listens to Stiles pulling off his clothes and then the mattress dips as Stiles climbs in behind him. He tucks an arm around Derek's stomach, plastering the front of his body to Derek's back, and Derek lets himself relax for the first time in hours, the warmth of Stiles' body comforting, safe. 

They fall asleep in the early morning sunlight. There are things to do, wounds to heal, people to bury, wolves to fight - but they can wait just a little bit longer, while Derek sleeps and heals and rebuilds the walls inside his head. His sister is alive and Erica is dead and the town is falling to pieces around them but for a couple more hours, he and Stiles are safe. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of the garden verse. It's just getting more depressing. Takes place directly after the end of S03E04.
> 
> Rating: General  
> Applicable Tags: Derek POV, panic attacks

Derek is already at the Stilinski house when Stiles texts him. He stands in the tree line in the pouring rain and stares up at the warm rectangle of light that marks Stiles' room while he tries to figure out how he got there. He remembers leaving the loft in a rush, barely giving Isaac time to disappear before he was slinging on his jacket and mumbling some sort of excuse to Cora. He didn't even put on shoes; his feet are covered in mud and slowly bleeding scratches. He frowns at his feet, wondering why they're so slow to heal when he remembers that most of his body is concentrating on the gaping wound in his chest. It's not gaping any more, but it's still raw, and it hurts when he breathes.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and when he pulls it out, he sees a message from Stiles, just a quick _can you come over?_

That's the other reason he's been standing in the hedgerow. His feet carried him here, but he doesn't just go in like he usually does because he's not sure Stiles wants to see him. Derek knows that Isaac has probably gone to Scott, and Scott has probably told Stiles everything. He knows that Stiles and Isaac aren't friends, exactly, but Stiles cares about Isaac and he's going to be furious.

Join the club, Derek thinks miserably. He hates himself for what he's just done to Isaac. Things between them had been good; he'd finally started feeling like pack - and that's why Derek had to do it, had to hurt him. He'd rather Isaac hate him and be alive than the alternative. Derek's not going to let any more people die because of him.

 And Derek doesn't want to see Stiles because he needs to do the same. The alphas will come after Stiles eventually and he will never, ever forgive himself if Stiles is killed. Just the thought makes his stomach twist and he digs his claws into the nearest tree, shredding the bark.

His phone buzzes again and he digs it out to see _i hope its ok to ask_ and his eyes lift to the window again. Derek realizes that it's the first time either one of them has _asked_ for the other. There have been a lot of unspoken agreements, sudden appearances at the other's home. In the beginning, there were carefully neutral texts that said things like _garden tomorrow?_ but never have they requested the other's presence. And Derek doesn't know if this is a step forward or back; if Stiles wants him enough not to chance it, or if he's so upset that he can't wait for Derek to appear.

_I'm on my way,_ Derek texts back, because he's not going to admit that he's been standing outside for the last twenty minutes. He watches the window and sees Stiles' form pass by, but he doesn't move from his spot. It's dark and rainy and he knows that he can't be seen from his spot amongst the trees. He listens to Stiles, the noises faint but clear; he sounds like he's working on homework. There's pen on paper, and pages turning, then the irritating noise of Stiles' phone playing _Werewolf Bar Mitzvah_ , which he knows is Scott's ringtone.

"Hey," Stiles says and then continues without waiting for a response, "so Lydia and I were talking to Deaton and he - what?"

There's a long pause. Derek can't hear what Scott's saying, but he can almost feel Stiles' energy change. He'd felt sad before, unhappy, but now he's starting to feel angry. Scott's telling him about Isaac, and Derek realizes that he hadn't known, before Stiles had texted him. His fingers curl around the phone in his pocket. If Stiles hadn't been mad before, did that mean he really wanted _Derek?_ Derek knew he shouldn't be thinking about this stuff - there were more important things to worry about - but lately he's come to the conclusion that Stiles Stilinski takes up a _lot_ of his thoughts and it's a surprise when that realization doesn't bother him in the slightest.

"Oh," Stiles says, and Derek's attention jerks back to the house. "Oh. Okay." He doesn't sound angry; he sounds defeated, and that kind of hurts. "Well, I - " He pauses again, listens to Scott, and sighs. "Yeah. I'll talk to you tomorrow." He sets down his phone and there's silence for a long time after that. Derek wonders if he's running his hands through his hair; he's been doing that a lot lately since it's gotten longer. Derek likes to do it too, when they're curled on the couch watching a movie, when Stiles is pushing into him, when he's asleep, his soft lips parted as he breathes. But - no. His feet have carried him here and Stiles knows he's coming, and he has to stop this before Stiles is hurt. 

He waits until a feasible amount of time has passed, then lopes across the dark backyard. He has a moment of fear before leaping onto the garage roof, worried that Stiles will turn him away, and then he thinks it would be better for both of them if he did. Stiles doesn't turn him away, though; he sits up on his bed when Derek pushes the window up. He's surrounded by books but they don't look like homework; Derek catches a page full of runes before Stiles shuts the heavy volume and slips off the bed. 

"Why are you so wet?" he asks and Derek tilts his head, studying his tone. There's anger there, but it's being smothered by unhappiness, sharp and tangible. Derek can taste it on his tongue, bitter like unsweetened tea. Stiles' eyes slide to his uncovered feet and his brow draws together in a frown. "Did you run here?"

Derek nods, not mentioning he arrived half an hour ago. Stiles sighs faintly and leaves the room, reappearing a moment later with a towel. Derek shucks off his leather jacket and carefully drapes it over the back of Stiles' desk chair. It was his father's, the only thing he has of his apart from his hazel eyes, and it's one of his greatest treasures. He accepts the towel and pats himself dry, watching Stiles the whole time from the corner of his eyes. 

Stiles stands next to his bed, arms folded as he watches Derek. He's not happy. 

"You know," Derek says as he towels his hair, choosing the moment so his face is covered and he doesn't have to see that sadness on Stiles' face.

"Yeah."

"You're angry?"

Stiles pauses for a moment before he says, "I thought I'd let you tell me your side before I decided how to feel."

Derek lowers the towel, but he doesn't meet Stiles' eyes. "Whatever Scott told you is true. There's not a lot of room for interpretation." 

"Maybe not," Stiles agrees. "So you threw a bottle at Isaac. You kicked him out. _Why?"_

Derek flinches, but he knows he needs to tell Stiles the truth. Someone has to understand. And unlike Isaac, there's no pack bond to sever. He doesn't want to hurt Stiles. So he tells Stiles about Deucalion's visit and the pole through his stomach. Stiles makes him stop so he can push up Derek's shirt, grimace at the wound, prod at its sore edges with his long fingers. He tells Stiles about Isaac and how he needs the bond to sever, for Isaac to attach himself to Scott so there's no danger of Derek killing him. Stiles is silent for a long time. He sits on the edge of his bed and rests his skinny forearms on his thighs and watches Derek while he thinks. 

Eventually Stiles says, "I understand. That was the shittiest way you could have done that, but I understand."

Derek nods. He's still standing in front of the open window. He doesn't like to keep his back exposed, but he'll be able to make a quick exit like this, as soon as he can find the words and tell Stiles they're done. He's still searching when Stiles' eyes sharpen then soften in quick succession. "You're going to do the same thing with me, aren't you?" he asks softly. 

"You're not dying because of me," Derek says, his throat tightening. 

Stiles looks down at his hands, his mouth going thin. "You," he says, and his voice catches. "You could have just texted me. It's not like we're dating." 

Derek stares at him, his mouth falling open. He feels like he's been punched in the gut and he shouldn't, he knows - it's not like they ever agreed to anything. Scott doesn't even know about them and he's Stiles' best friend. They're a secret, but it still hurts. 

Stiles looks up at him, his eyes bright. He smells like misery, but something's sparked in his face and his mouth falls open. "You love me," he says hoarsely. "Oh my god." 

And it's true. It's been true for a while now, but Derek wasn't going to tell him because he didn't want his love to be a burden, not when he doesn't know if he'll be alive in three months - hell, three days, at the rate things have been going. He felt it today with the cold metal shoved through his chest, a darkness deeper than anything Deucalion could conjure, looming over him with malicious intent. 

Stiles looks the opposite of happy, which is not the way that he looks in the rare moments when Derek lets himself dream about this moment. His heartbeat's kicking up, his breathing's coming fast. He hunches into himself and Derek suddenly realizes that he's having a panic attack. He steps forward hesitantly, extends a hand then stops, unsure Stiles wants or needs his touch right now. But Stiles reaches for him, breath hitching, and Derek pulls him close. He can feel Stiles shaking, his legs trembling, so Derek lowers them to the floor and they end up in a heap under the open window. Derek can feel rain on the top of his head but he doesn't move them because Stiles' body feels like he's on fire. He's got his face pressed against Derek's collarbone and Derek can feel how his mouth hangs open, trying desperately to breathe. Derek doesn't make a noise, just rubs his hands over the back of his neck and curve of his spine, forcing calm into his touch, wishing he could pull at this like he could physical pain. 

Eventually Stiles sits up and wipes at his face and Derek lets him go, not sure Stiles will want to stay with him now that the panic's passed. Stiles makes no move to get up, however; he looks down at Derek's chest and fiddles with the hem of his shirt. 

"You don't," Derek tries, then starts again. "I don't want you to worry about it. If you don't - if you don't feel the same. I - it'll be better. For both of us. You'll be safe."

Stiles bites his lip and asks, "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"Because I need to keep you safe," Derek says plaintively. "Because everyone I love ends up hurt." 

"You don't think I can take care of myself?"

Derek smiles unhappily. "They're alphas, Stiles. If I can't - "

"What are you going to do if you're alone?" Stiles interrupts. "Have you already given up?"

"No," Derek says, and he doesn't say _You're the only thing keeping me together._  

"This is not easier," Stiles declares. "I'm not going to let you."

"Stiles - "

"No," Stiles says fiercely, looking Derek in the eye. "Everything sucks. My dad doesn't trust me. Scott won't listen to me. People are dying, and I can't do anything about it. You're the only good thing that's happening and if you think I'm letting you go, you're fucking stupid." He grips Derek's shoulders, glaring at him. "I'm not letting you give up."

"Okay," Derek says, and he shouldn't let himself be so easily swayed, but he can be selfish sometimes. He curls a hand around the back of Stiles' neck, pulling him down so their foreheads are pressed together. He breathes in deep. "Okay."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For[Brii](http://haagendazstilinski.tumblr.com/). Because I went to culinary school for a while and worked as a baker for a few years, I couldn't resist. Wanted hand porn, ended up with this (sorry, Becca).**
> 
>  
> 
> Rating: General  
> Applicable Tags: Stiles POV, Baking AU

Stiles hates the new påtissier.

No one with hands that big should be able to make the delicate creations that he does. No one with that bone structure should be working in a hot bakery. No one should have any right to be as hot as this dude is, though maybe it works out because he's also an asshole. It makes Stiles feel a little better about himself, because though _he_ may not look like he just stepped out of the centerfold of _Playgirl_ , at least he's nice. Sometimes. 

He'd be jealous of the way all the female customers flirt with the new pastry chef every time he brings out a new plate of confections with which to stock the cold case, but the expression on the dude's face when he comes back into the kitchen says that he _hates_ the attention and that tickles Stiles to the core. He'd probably hate Stiles too, if he knew that when Stiles went out front, the female customers asked him all sorts of questions about the new chef and Stiles was happy to tell them anything he could think of to fuel their raging lady boners (he spoke fluent French, he owned three cats, he'd been in the centerfold of _Playgirl)._

Not that Stiles is mean-spirited, of course, but the dude's kind of a dick. He doesn't say a word to anyone in the kitchen, except to snap and snarl if anyone fucks up his perfectly-maintained work station. Victoria's the one who hired him, and even she doesn't seem to like him all that much (not like she's super friendly to any of them; the woman's like a red-haired woman-shaped column of barely-contained anger). Stiles is pretty sure the only reason she doesn't fire him is because the stuff he makes is beautiful _and_ delicious (so sue him: sometimes he'll snag something out of the cold case, but only when Derek's heavily occupied making something else and Stiles has to admit he _is_ good at what he does).

Well, whatever. They only work together for a couple of hours a day anyway; Stiles is the bread baker and he comes in at two in the morning and stays until noon. Derek's usually in around ten and leaves in the early evenings. That's fine with him; Stiles gets a few hours to himself before anyone else arrives and he can play his music as loud as he wants, can sing along as loud as he wants. The first week Derek worked, Stiles forgot he was there and started singing, only to turn away from the mixer to see Derek staring at him. Since then, he's kept his music on low. He still feels like Derek watches him sometimes, though. When he's kneading dough at his station, he thinks sometimes he can feel Derek's eyes on his back, though whenever he turns around, Derek's always consumed in something requiring intense concentration, piping a chocolate design onto a torte or building something unnecessarily complicated out of spun sugar. Victoria keeps trying to tell him that this is just a neighborhood bakery, not a five-star hotel, but he just shrugs at her words and it's not like she can deny that what he's making isn't selling.

One Thursday morning, Stiles is having a pretty spectacularly shitty day. Some idiot shut off the proofing oven after he left the day before, and as a result, none of his doughs rose. He has to dump nearly twenty-five pounds of ruined dough into the dumpster and it leaves him sour and combative. He dumps warm water all over himself and Derek when he turns away from the sink and Derek is _right there,_ his arms full of dishes and his head turned to watch one of the baristas grabbing milk out of the fridge. 

"Watch your fucking self!" Stiles snaps, as warm water goes sloshing down his legs and into his shoes. "Fuck!" 

He gets even angrier when he storms into the back room a few minutes later and Derek's in there, his back to the door as he strips off his wet t-shirt and pulls on a clean one. It's not _fair_ how muscular he is. Not like Stiles would ever have a chance with him anyway, even if he wasn't a total douche, but god, does he have to, like, _flaunt_ it? Stiles bites down on another stream of swears and stomps out to the front of the house. 

"Bad day?" Scott asks sympathetically, watching Stiles pour himself an iced coffee into the biggest cup they have.

"The worst," Stiles sighs. "I'm taking fifteen. I'll be out back if anyone needs me."

Scott salutes him with a goofy grin and Stiles manages to rustle up his first smile of the day before disappearing back through the kitchen and out the back door. There's a picnic table under a tree out there and he settles down on the bench, heaving a sigh. It's blessedly quiet back back here, where only the employees can park, and he scrubs a hand over his buzzed hair, letting himself relax. He tenses up again when he hears the back door open and he twists, expecting to see Scott or one of the other baristas, but he stiffens further when he sees it's Derek. He's got a cup of coffee in his hands and a croissant in the other and he's looking around like he was going to sit at the picnic table, but doesn't know where to go now that he's seen Stiles there. 

Stiles twists his head in the other direction. Whatever. Derek can sit where he wants; this isn't high school. He sips determinedly on his iced coffee and doesn't look over when he feels the picnic table dip. Derek doesn't say anything to him - shocker - but just listening to the crinkle of the paper wrapped around his food makes Stiles angry again. Stiles has been there for like eight hours already and this is his first break. Derek's been there an hour and he's already sitting down?

"So, what's your deal, dude?" Stiles asks abruptly, jerking his body around to stare at Derek. 

Derek lifts his pale eyes to him, then turns his head. "I don't have a deal," he says flatly.

"Yeah, yeah you do," Stiles says triumphantly, jabbing a finger at him. "It's that right there."

Derek scowls, his eyes focused on the parking lot. "What are you talking about?"

"You!" Stiles throws his hands up in the air. "You've always got this look on your face like you've smelled dog shit, and you're kind of a jackass. Why don't you talk to anyone?"

Derek turns to look at Stiles, his mouth thin. He looks angry, but also confused, and a little…hurt? Stiles shuts his mouth, wondering if he's just stepped in something he shouldn't have. "No one talks to _me,"_ Derek says stiffly. 

Stiles' eyes fall to the table, where the croissant is sitting, untouched. He realizes it's closer to him than it is to Derek, like it was supposed to be a peace offering or something. He swallows, suddenly feeling like an asshole. "Is - is that for me?" he asks quietly. 

Derek nods, a quick jerk of his head, and looks away again. Stiles bites his lip and tugs on the piece of paper, pulling the pastry toward him. It's one of the chocolate-filled croissants he's secretly in love with, and Derek's cut it like a sandwich and laid slices of bananas and strawberries inside. 

"This is really nice," Stiles says, feeling like maybe he didn't give Derek a chance. "Thank you."

Derek looks down at his hands and says haltingly, "I'm not - I used to work at a hotel. I had this corner all to myself and no one ever came over unless they needed an order filled. I - I'm not used to working with other people, I guess, and everyone here - it's like a big family and I was…intimidated, kind of."

"Oh," Stiles says. He's been there so long that everyone _is_ like family - Scott, Allison, Lydia, the rest of the baristas. He even likes Jackson, who's the evening manager (though come to think of it, _he's_ probably the one who shut the proofing oven off, the _dick)_. They go out together all the time and the baristas are always coming back to hang out at his station and chat. Shit, no wonder Derek feels alienated. He'd taken one look at Derek's bitch face and assumed he was an asshole. God damn, _he_ was the asshole, holy shit. "Oh, dude, I'm _sorry._ I didn't even - shit." He exhales noisily. "Fuck. Can we start over? I'm Stiles."

"Derek," he says, looking somewhat bemused. 

"Well, Derek," Stiles says, putting his chin on his hand, "we're all going out tomorrow night. You want to come along?"

One side of Derek's mouth lifts in what some might construe as a smile. "All right." 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For[Becca](http://mydearsourwolf.tumblr.com) & [Sam](http://taidou.tumblr.com) because I had a little panic attack last night and they were both so supportive and awesome. **
> 
> Rating: Explicit  
> Applicable Tags: Derek POV, mates, hunt, blow jobs, facial

It's been a rough week for Derek Hale. 

On Monday, someone in the building sets off the fire alarm while he and Stiles are getting intimate and they have to troop downstairs to stand with the rest of the building' occupants. In their boxers. Sporting raging hard-ons. It doesn't endear him to the landlord, a tiny old lady who eyes the two of them with a nasty expression that says _I'm raising your rent and there's nothing you can do about it._

Tuesday he gets a call from the foreman at the construction site of the old house, which is being razed so they can build a new house there, with the news that all of their permits have been revoked due to some stupid bureaucratic nonsense. He spends four _hours_ at the city hall arguing with zoning coordinators and building inspectors and the fight ends with Derek flipping them off and stalking out of the building without getting anything resolved. 

On Wednesday nothing bad happens to him, but Stiles comes home nearly in tears because of parent-teacher conferences and some of his students' parents are _assholes_. Derek wants to track them down and rip their heads off. 

Thursday he parks on the street while he runs into Darcy's to get Stiles a slice of her coconut cream pie because he's determined to make sure Stiles has a better day and Stiles _loves_ that pie. Derek's standing at the counter waiting to pay when he hears a screeching and crunching of metal and when he goes outside, container of pie in hand, someone has side-swiped the Camaro, buckling the metal so bad he can barely get the door open. At the shop, the mechanic tells him that it's going to be five thousand in body work. Derek calls Isaac for a ride and forgets the slice of pie on the front seat. 

Now today is Friday and it's not any better. He and Stiles fought that morning, something stupid and bitter that shouldn't have even happened, but with the week that he's had and the full moon that evening, Derek's tightly-wound and close to bursting. He watches Stiles stalk out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him, and it's all he can do not to tear something apart. He goes to the city hall instead, and manages to get the permits worked out, and then he goes to the site of the old house and puts all his energy into ripping down walls. 

It's nearly nightfall by the time he leaves. He's covered in sweat and aches down to his bones. All he wants is to tell Stiles he's sorry and press his face against his pale skin and ride out the moon in the comfort of his own bed. That's not what happens, though - of course it's not, not with the week he's been having. 

For one, Stiles isn't home when he walks through the door. He should be - school got out hours ago - but Derek's shoulders slump. Stiles is probably still mad. He probably went to his dad's. Derek checks his phone but there's nothing from him, and that seems…dire. He knows the importance of the full moon. He knows he's Derek's mate. He should be here, and the fact that he's not - 

Derek's head hurts. The moon is pulling at him, twisting at his insides. He doesn't want to think so he goes and takes a shower instead, listening all the while, hoping Stiles will come through the front door. He doesn't, and Derek steps out of the shower feeling like shit. He walks into the bedroom and that's when he notices a piece of paper laying on the bed. Derek's stomach drops as he thinks of the worst, of all the ruinous things that note could say. _I hate you, I'm done, I don't love you anymore._

Derek swallows and picks up the note, his eyes flowing over the words. 

_come find me_ ♥

Derek reads it several times, mouthing the words _come find me_ over and over. He sets down the note and exhales all at once, relief shuddering through him. He's smiling by the time he turns to the dresser so he can pull on a pair of gym shorts and an old t-shirt, grinning by the time he hits the street and swings his head from side to side, scenting Stiles' path. He starts off at a gentle trot, following his mate's scent down the darkening streets. He breaks into a lope when he hits the forest, body singing with excitement.

It's been months since he's been out on a full moon, and he hadn't realized how much he missed it. Holding the shift, controlling himself - those things haven't been an issue in a long time, and it's not like he really has a pack anymore, doesn't need to keep the bonds strong. Isaac's basically an omega now, though he still hangs out with them, and Boyd hasn't talked to him in years. He usually spends the night in bed with Stiles, cementing their bond, the most important one, over and over. 

Stiles is clever. He's laid paths all through the woods, criss-crossing back and forth through the trees, leaving false starts and stops. Derek moves slowly. He could hone in Stiles in an instant if he really wanted to, but knowing that Stiles put all this work into this for _him_ is thrilling, and he wants to savor it. Stiles' scent is rich and sweet and it changes as the trail gets warmer, tinged with excitement and lust. It makes Derek lick his lips, eyes glowing red and predatory.

When he does reach Stiles, the moon is high and full above the trees, bathing the forest in silver and blue. Stiles is sitting halfway up a tree, kicking his feet idly, and he smiles when Derek spots him. "Hey, sourwolf," he says, tilting his head to one side. "Took you long enough."

"Get down here," Derek says through a mouth thick with fangs. 

Stiles smiles and Derek's stomach tightens because now _he's_ the one who looks predatory. Derek swallows as he watches Stiles lower himself from the tree, all the grace he never had in high school present now, the long lines of his body lean. Stiles leans back against the tree, quirks a finger at him, and that's all the invitation Derek needs before he's pushing Stiles into the rough bark, curling his fingers under his chin and licking into his mouth with all the care an alpha on the full moon with a mouth full of teeth can manage. Stiles pushes back against him, never still, digging blunt fingers into the curve of his spine, the pulse of his neck, the heat of his hips. 

This is the thing he loves about Stiles - one of the things, one of the many things. Stiles is tougher than he looks, his long limbs strong. They've had years to push boundaries and explore each other's limits, and Derek feels safe in the knowledge that Stiles isn't going break under him. He sighs softly, pushing his nose along Stiles' jaw line, hands rucking Stiles' shirt up so he can slide his hands over his warm skin. "Sorry," he mumbles into Stiles' throat as his thumbs graze Stiles' nipples and his body jerks against Derek's. "About this morning."

"Shut up," Stiles says, and there's nothing but fondness and heat in his voice. "'s my fault. I got angry and I took it out on you." He pushes at Derek's shoulders, forcing them apart, and smiles wickedly. "Lemme make it up to you." 

The wolf in Derek's head howls for the heat of Stiles' body. He wants to be inside him, claiming what's his, but he lets Stiles swing them around so that now he's the one with his back to the tree, rough bark digging into his shoulder blades. All the breath rushes out of him when Stiles drops to his knees and presses his mouth to the burning heat between Derek's legs. Derek has to clutch at his shoulders, the friction of Stiles' mouth against his cock with the silky-smooth burn of the fabric of his shorts between them making his knees weak. He can smell his own lust in the air, heavy and suffocating, and Stiles' is just as strong, heady. 

He threads his fingers through Stiles' hair as Stiles' long fingers curl around the elastic of his shorts, pulling them down tantalizingly slow, like some kind of inverted strip tease. Derek's moan echoes through the woods when Stiles finally takes him into his mouth, one hand curled around the base, the other hand digging into the meat of his thigh. Derek can't stop touching Stiles; one hand remains curled in his hair while the other moves constantly, tracing his cheekbone, touching the corner of his mouth where it's stretched and gleaming with spit. He can't take his eyes off Stiles' face, has to force himself to keep his eyes open so he can watch the flutter of Stiles' eyelashes, the hollowing of his cheeks as he sucks the life out of Derek. 

There's heat pooling in his hips, sparking off his toes and fingers. The breath comes out of him again, high and pleading, when Stiles' hand slips between his legs, fondling his balls before slipping back further, pressing against his entrance. Derek can't stop his hips from bucking at the touch, groaning, begging. He can feel Stiles smile around him, the little shit, and he presses in dry, just the tip of his finger, but it has Derek shaking, claws curling and retracting in waves as he fights for control. 

"Come on," Stiles murmurs, pulling his mouth away but not leaving, breathing hot against Derek's skin. "Tell me where you want to come." 

_"Fuck,"_ Derek groans. "God, your face, _please."_

"Okay," Stiles grins. "Do it yourself, then." And he sits back on his heels, looking up at Derek expectantly. Derek groans again and wraps a hand around his dick, pulling in quick, greedy movements. Stiles still has a finger inside him, the other hand gripping at Derek's hip so hard there'd be bruises if he was human, and Derek pushes back against him, his breath coming in tight pants. He can't handle the way Stiles looks up at him through his dark lashes, lips parted. It's unbearable the way his heart beats so steadily, trusting Derek with all of his being. Derek watches him lick his lips and it's game over for him; he's coming with a sharp, stuttering cry, his come splattering against Stiles' smooth, freckled skin, splashing over his lips and jaws. He slumps, dick still hot and pulsing in his hand, and it jumps against his fingers when Stiles licks his lips again, sliding a finger across his cheek and sucking it into his mouth. Derek bends so he can kiss him and he tastes himself on Stiles' tongue. Stiles hums into his mouth and Derek can feel the noise vibrate through him, rattling his bones. Stiles pulls back, grinning. 

"Good?" he asks.

"Apology accepted," Derek says hoarsely, and Stiles' grin widens as he gets to his feet. 

"Give me a ten minute head start," he says, cupping Derek's chin in his long fingers. "I think we need a replay."

It's Derek's turn to lick his lips. "I'll count to one hundred," he says. "One. Two. Thr - "

Stiles tilts his head back and _laughs._ "Catch me if you can, wolf boy," he says, and disappears into the forest. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part five of the garden verse! This one takes place directly _before_ S03E05, Frayed.
> 
> Rating: General  
> Applicable Tags: Stiles POV, Death, Loss

They're in the locker room, gathering their things for the cross-country meet when Scott leans over and tells Stiles what happened in the abandoned shopping mall the night before. His face is pale, sweat prickling his brow, and he speaks slowly and carefully. Stiles watches his best friend's face and knows that something bad is about to come out of his mouth; he knows Scott, knows every expression he makes, and there's nothing positive written on his face now. Stiles figures it out a moment before Scott's mouth forms the word _Derek_ and he wishes he'd moved then, clapped a hand over Scott's mouth to keep him from saying the words that follow.

He doesn't, though, because he never told Scott about him and Derek. That was his choice. He never told Scott about the work he'd done with Derek and Isaac over the summer, never told Scott when their relationship turned into something more. He's been laying in bed at night - sometimes alone, sometimes with Derek's heavy weight next to him - and thinking about what Derek didn't say the night he kicked Isaac out. What Stiles figured out on his own, while Derek was looking at him like he'd been punched in the stomach. 

Stiles almost isn't sure why Scott's even bothering to tell him. He didn't bother to tell Stiles that he was going to talk to Deucalion and even now, though his words are careful, it seems like an afterthought. Stiles wants to smack him, wants to grab him by the shoulders and scream in his face that Derek loved him and Stiles kind of maybe thinks that he loved him back. But he can't. Because he decided that their relationship should be a secret, so maybe it's fair that Scott didn't tell him his plans. That makes them even, right?

Stiles has to stand there and hear Scott say _Derek is dead,_ and Stiles is silent for a long moment afterward. He's thinking, trying to figure out how the old him, who didn't trust Derek, who was scared of Derek, would have reacted. And apparently just standing there is the right thing to do, because Scott gives him a pained smile that's more like a grimace really, and picks up his bag and hobbles out of the locker room.

Stiles sets his things down. He shuts his locker and snaps on the lock. He smooths his hand over his face and walks out of the locker and into the bathroom. He steps into a stall and backs against the door, slipping to the ground as his knees give way underneath him. He jams his wrist into his mouth before he can scream, teeth sinking into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt, and he breathes through his nose. 

_Derek is dead._

Derek is not dead. His leather jacket, the one that belonged to his father, is still draped across the back of Stiles' desk chair from where he slung it the other night. They didn't really talk after Derek's non-confession. Derek carried him through a panic attack and then placed him in his bed and sat at his side and didn't touch him except to run a hand through his hair, over and over, until Stiles' eyes drifted shut and he fell asleep. When Stiles woke in the morning, Derek was gone, which was unusual, but his jacket was still there like a promise to return. Derek will appear in his bedroom window soon, slip inside for a late night kiss, get into bed with him and hold him close. He tells Stiles things late at night when the world is quiet, tiny, jagged remnants of his past. Like the jacket, and how it belonged to his father and he stole it that morning when he was fifteen, and when he came home later that day there was nothing left of his family but ash and an aching hole in his heart. 

Derek survived a pole through his chest. He survived being shredded to bits by his betas. He survived Peter stabbing him through the heart and he survived Kate's wolfsbane bullet and he'll survive a fall that breaks his bones and snaps his spine. He will. He'll be back for the jacket, because it's important to him, just like he'll be back because Stiles is important to him.

But Stiles' eyes won't stop welling with tears even as he tries to tell himself all of this because he thinks about how he asked Derek if he'd given up already and how Derek said no, like Stiles doesn't know him well enough to know when he's lying. Stiles doesn't need a werewolf's hearing to hear Derek's heart skip over the falsehood; he can read it in every miserable, tired line of Derek's face and it makes his heart clench because there's nothing he can do to fix how Derek's given up. He knows Derek was never going to tell Stiles he loved him because Derek's a martyr and he probably thought that his love would be some kind of burden. Stiles hates him a little, for that because even if they didn't label what they were, they were together and that was selfish. He can handle Derek's love, and he can handle Derek's death. He is right now, isn't he?

Stiles hears the bathroom door open and he holds his breath, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes to dry away the tears. He listens to the footsteps enter and they stop right in front of his stall and he thinks _go away, go away, go away_. But there's material shifting, and then he hears Isaac say, "Stiles?"

Stiles doesn't want to talk to Isaac. He wants to go home and bury his head in his pillows and scream. He wants to go to Derek's loft and curl up in his bed and breath in the smell of him. He doesn't want to look at Isaac, who was betrayed by Derek in all the wrong ways for what Derek thinks were all the right reasons (and Stiles doesn't know if he's right or wrong; he's not pack and he can't truly understand the threat). Isaac, who Derek betrayed and is here now trying to comfort him. He's the only one that knows - knew, fuck - about him and Derek, and Stiles hates that it's Isaac there and not Scott. 

"Are you okay?" Isaac asks, his voice low.

"What do you think," Stiles mutters back, rubbing his sleeve over his face. 

Isaac is silent for a long moment. "They're loading the bus," he says. 

"Fuck the track meet," Stiles mumbles, and Isaac is silent again.

"Scott needs you," he says finally.

"He's got you," Stiles says bitterly, and Isaac sighs.

"I'm not your replacement," he replies. 

Stiles glares at the toilet, daring his eyes to water again. "You were there," he says. "Is he dead?"

"….I don't think he's getting up again," Isaac says quietly, and Stiles can tell he doesn't want to talk about Derek and fuck him, Stiles doesn't want to either, but he needs - he needs something. Confirmation or denial or something. A puzzle he can solve. 

Stiles exhales slowly, sniffs, wipes his face again. He gets to his feet and unlocks the door, listens to Isaac step back so he can come out. Isaac's looking past his face, distinctly uncomfortable, and so is Stiles a second later when Isaac rushes forward and wraps him in a hug for about a millisecond, then springs back like he's been poisoned. 

"Didn't happen," Isaac mutters, avoiding his eyes now. 

"Didn't want it to happen," Stiles retorts, but he feels marginally better for some reason. Isaac cracks a smile and leaves the bathroom. Stiles looks at himself in the mirror, splashes water onto his face, then goes to grab his things so he can sit on a bus for the next five hours and pretend that everything is a-ok.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** General  
>  **Applicable Tags:** Underage???, Outsider POV, Possessiveness :)

Derek pulls up in front of the school as the bell rings shrilly inside. Teenagers are already pouring out the doors by the time he's walked around to the other side of the car, leaning against the warm metal with his arms crossed over his chest as he waits for Stiles to appear. 

People are talking about him. This is a thing that tends to happen when he goes out in public, and Derek is mostly used to it. Derek is aware, vaguely, that he's got bone structure some people would kill for. It makes Stiles gesture wordlessly and furiously when Derek doesn't understand why waitresses flirt with him and people stare at his ass as they walk down the street. And it's not like the Camaro helps, Stiles tells him. You can't put two sexy beasts together and expect people not to stare. 

Derek shrugs uncomfortably, glad his eyes are hidden behind his sunglasses. There's a group of girls who can't be older than fourteen gathered around a tree a couple yards away and they keep taking it in turns to glance over at him and giggle furiously.

_Who_ **_is_ ** _he?_

_Look at his car; I wouldn't mind a ride in that._

_I wouldn't mind a ride on_ **_him._ **

Derek looks away, the tips of his ears going pink, but everywhere he looks there are more people staring at him, watching him. Some of them know him, he thinks. He went to school with their older brothers and sisters. Some of them went to school with Cora, and nearly all of them are way too young to be talking about him in any sort of romantic context. At least Stiles is legal now, Jesus. The stench of all their hormonal lust makes him feel ill.

_Who's he waiting for?_

_He looks like a fucking model. Look at that jacket._

_I dare you to go ask him for his number._

Derek feels a flood of relief rush through him when he finally spots Stiles walking out of the school, walking side-by-side with Scott, gesturing forcefully as he talks animatedly. He charts the moment Stiles spots him, his head coming up, his shoulders straightening, and he doesn't smile but he looks so goddam possessive that Derek can't help but shudder. Scott punches him on the arm and heads off in another direction and Derek nods at the two-fingered wave Scott throws him. 

Everyone's still watching when Stiles walks right up to him and leans his whole body against Derek's, wrapping his long arms around Derek's neck, murmuring, "Hey, hot stuff." Derek _feels_ the climate of their observers change, smells the shock and awe rippling through them. 

_Stilinski? How the_ **_hell_ ** _did he snag someone like that?_

They've got it wrong, Derek thinks, curling his fingers through the loops of Stiles' jeans, pressing his nose to the line of his jaw. He didn't catch anyone; Stiles caught _him._


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** General  
>  **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, Fluff

It's almost noon before Stiles wanders out of the bedroom, yawning and scratching sleepily at his bare stomach. It's a quiet Sunday; the crisis of the week (pixies this time, can you imagine) has been averted and he gets to sleep in for once. 

He finds Derek lounging on the couch in the living room, hardcover book held loosely in his hands. 

"Whatchu reading?" Stiles asks, hanging over the back of the couch. 

Derek frowns at him, moving the book closer to his chest protectively. "Research," he rumbles. 

"Mmm," Stiles sighs, squirming the rest of the way over the couch and flopping down onto Derek. Derek sighs, sounding put upon, and lifts his arms so that Stiles can insinuate himself between Derek and his book. "You should take a vacation from the supernatural once in a while."

"I will when you will," Derek replies, digging a finger into Stiles' ribs.

"Hey!" Stiles yelps, wriggling. "I do take breaks! I play video games!"

"Video games where you shoot monsters in the head," Derek says, dropping his heavy hand on Stiles' back. 

"It counts," Stiles mutters, and mutinously shifts his hips against Derek's. "There are other kinds of vacations, you know."

The book ends up on the floor and they both end up naked and spent, which is exactly where Stiles wanted them to be. Derek flicks him on the nose and shifts him to the side so he can head into the bathroom and Stiles rolls onto his stomach, reaching so he can pick Derek's book up on the floor. _Sidhe of Galway Town and All Points North_ reads the cover, and Stiles flips to a random page in the middle. 

"Oh my _God,"_ he squawks, and he hears Derek step out of the bathroom.

"Stiles?"

"You're _kidding_ me."

"Stiles?" Derek asks again, sounding concerned. "Is everything all right?" He walks down the hall and into the living room, but freezes when he sees the book in Stiles' hands. 

"Really, Der?" Stiles waves the slim volume at him. He's ripped off the fake cover, revealing a lurid romance novel titled _Tomorrow's Dream_ , featuring a red-haired woman and a man with long hair he suspects is Fabio. "You can't find _anything_ better to read?"

Derek marches over to the couch and tries to yank the book out of Stiles' hands but Stiles holds on, resulting in Derek lifting him bodily off the couch. "They're ten for a dollar at the library book sale," Derek snaps. _"You're_ the one who said take a vacation."

"With Fabio, though?" Stiles cackles. "Are you sad because I'm not strong enough to sweep you off your feet? I swear I'll start lifting weights if you want me to bulk up."

Derek sighs and drops him back onto the couch. Stiles pretends to pout. "Is it because we don't have a fairytale romance, big bad? I can try to find myself some sort of tower to get locked in if you want something to rescue."

"I do enough of that already," Derek says, flopping down on the couch next to him. "Are you going to make fun of me forever?"

"Not forever," Stiles decides, looping his arms around Derek's waist. "You only made fun of me for like two months when you found out I liked Celine Dion. I think twice that should be good enough."

"Four months, huh?" Derek sighs. "Good thing my - "

"Hush," Stiles says, pressing a finger to his lips. "No Celine Dion references. Leave the terrible jokes to me and work on your horrible pick-up lines." He presses the book into Derek's hands. "You could learn a thing or two from Fabio."


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, Alternative Universe - No Werewolves

Derek likes routine. 

He wakes up at the same time every day (6:50 AM), eats the same breakfast (dry toast and oatmeal), wears the same tie on its proper day of the week (blue on Monday, grey on Tuesday, and so on. Fridays he wears the "crazy" one Laura bought him for Christmas, which is red with thin gold stripes).

Derek has taken the same bus every weekday for five years; the 7:47 blue line, which gets him to work exactly ten minutes early so he has time to go to the coffee shop next door to his office building and buy the same drink he always does (black coffee with a shot of espresso). Derek likes the bus because it is quiet and it is never late or early. The driver, Deaton, nods when Derek gets on and nods when he gets off, and it's nice to have such regularity in his life. 

Clockwork. If Derek was an inanimate object, he'd be a clock. 

This morning, the bus is not on time and Derek is _distressed_ by the time it does show up, ten minutes late. He's even more distressed when the doors open and it's not quiet, collected Deaton sitting in the driver's seat, but a dark-haired young man with moles scattered across his face, which splits with a cheery grin as he quips, "Morning!"

Derek grits his teeth and climbs onto the bus, sliding his metro card through the scanner. He glowers at the old man sitting behind the driver's seat until he shuffles off to another seat, and Derek thunks himself down behind the driver. 

"Where's Deaton?" Derek snaps at him. 

"Heart attack," the young man replies, sounding inappropriately cheerful. "Early retirement."

"You were late."

"First day," the young man shrugs. "Underestimated the delays."

"You're going to make _me_ late."

"What time to you have to be to work?"

Derek bites the inside of his cheek. "Eight thirty." He thinks bitterly about his extra ten minutes and his coffee. 

"We'll be there," the young man says merrily. 

Derek glowers. "What's your name?"

"Stiles Stilinski."

Derek glower darkens. "That's not a real name."

"Nope," Stiles agrees cheerfully and Derek blinks, caught off guard. 

"Oh."

Derek does make it to work on time; 8:30 on the dot, but he's not happy about it. He thinks about going to get his coffee anyway, but he's never been late to work before and he's not going to start today. He sits at his desk, thinks about calling the bus company to complain about their new hire, and ends up thinking about Stiles' soft face instead. He talks to Laura over his lunch break (he takes his lunch at 1:15 every day, and always has a turkey and cheese sandwich) and she _laughs_ at him. 

Stiles isn't late the next day, but Derek glowers at him out of principle. Stiles grins and Derek tries to ignore how white his teeth are but fails miserably. 

Stiles is Deaton's polar opposite. He is inordinately loud; he plays pop music at a high volume and bellows along. Derek looks along the bus, but he seems to be the only one bothered by it; are all the other city buses like this? Stiles grins at everyone who gets on and shouts at people in the back - not because they're doing anything wrong, no, he asks them _questions._ What are they up to today, what did they do over the weekend, have they seen any good movies lately? Derek's quiet little bus ride turns into a chaotic social hour and, worse, he's the only one who seems to miss the silence. Stiles gets into a loud argument with Mr. Ivanssen about baseball and somehow ropes Derek into it; he finds himself arguing with Stiles about the Giant's seasonal roster and _he doesn't know how it happened._ He can't remember ever talking on the bus before.

Laura's laughter on his lunch breaks is getting on his nerves so he starts taking lunch outside, where he sits on a bench in the little garden park behind the building and eats his sandwich. It's more relaxing that he thought it'd be, surrounded by green trees and fresh air. He thinks _….huh_.

"Nice tie," Stiles remarks as Derek climbs onto the bus one morning, and Derek glances down to see, with a little bit of horror, that he's wearing the red and gold tie and it's only Wednesday. Wednesdays he wears the sage green Versace tie his mom bought him when he was hired at his job. 

"You all right?" Stiles asks, unaware that in his head, Derek's carefully constructed routine is falling to pieces. 

"Fine," Derek mutters, and throws himself down in the first unoccupied seat he finds. He feels Stiles' eyes on him the whole ride, watching him in the rear-view mirror. 

When he goes into the coffee shop, the girl at the counter, who has worked there almost as long as Derek's been at his job, smiles and says, "Two sixty-five," which is the price of Derek's coffee plus shot, but Derek shakes his head. 

"Can I," he asks slowly, his mouth going dry, "get a latte?"

The girl behind the counter laughs. "Feeling adventurous today?"

"Something like that," Derek mutters, and tips her twice what he normally does. He takes a sip of the latte and glares at nothing when he likes it. He's pretty sure this is all Stiles Stilinski's fault. 

The next morning he sits on the bus and glares at Stiles' stupid perfect face and his stupid vest with his nametag and his stupid hat and stupid long, graceful fingers. He calls Laura at lunch for the first time in a week and she laughs and says, "You've got a crush, baby brother. That is so _cute,"_ and he hangs up on her and then calls her back and apologizes, because his mother raised him to be polite, even to his irritating siblings. 

That night he lays in his boring bed with its boring white sheets and fucks into his hand, thinking about Stiles' long body and how good it would feel if it were Stiles' slender hands on him. He comes feeling resentful, and a bit like he's coming unhinged. 

The following morning he doesn't pay attention when he dresses, grabs whichever tie is closest. He eats eggs for breakfast because he's a goddamn human, not a robot, and he's got free will (and he's kind of sick of the taste of oatmeal, if he's being truthful). When the bus arrives he scrambles on board and glares at the old man behind the driver's seat (and because of Stiles and his big mouth, Derek knows that the old man's name is Ronald and he's a retired engineer who worked at GE for over thirty years), and takes his seat. It's Friday, and Stiles is singing along to Rihanna and Derek is embarrassed to find that he knows the words too. 

When the song's over, Derek leans forward and asks hesitantly, "Do you work on the weekends?"

"Not unless people need shifts covered," Stiles replies.

"Oh. Are you…covering any shifts this weekend?"

Stiles' eyes lift to the rear-view mirror, catching Derek's for a moment before Stiles looks back at the road in front of them. "Nope."

"Oh," Derek says again. His palms are sweating. "Do you - would you like to do dinner? With me? Maybe?"

Stiles is silent for a long time, so long that Derek thinks that maybe he didn't hear him, or he's trying to think of something to say that won't offend him. "All right," he says eventually, and one side of his face lifting into a grin when he adds, "but only if you wear that tie."

Derek looks down. He's wearing Laura's annual joke tie; it's covered in cats. He snorts. "Deal."


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rating:** Mature???  
>  **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, Emotional constipation

Derek has been avoiding this talk for a while. He thought he'd been doing a good job; he's good with his hands and his mouth but tonight it's not enough for Stiles. Derek can't really blame him; like any growing teenage boy, he spent most of his formative years figuring out all the best ways to put his dick to use and leaping at an opportunity to get his rocks off. That was how he ended up with his dick in Kate, which was followed swiftly by a dead family and burnt out husk of a house. It's hard to spring back from something like that.

Now Stiles is shifting around impatiently underneath him, reaching for Derek's dick like it's his one lord and savior but Derek pulls back out of his reach, and Stiles' face goes blank, though his mouth thins in a way that Derek knows means he's angry.

"Is there something wrong?" Stiles asks flatly. 

"I - no," Derek lies, and Stiles' face goes grim. 

He props himself up on one elbow and asks pointedly, "Are you even interested in me? Because you keep pulling away and I - if you don't want this, maybe you should just leave." Stiles looks like it hurts him to say it, but he keeps his face steady, anger tracing every line of his body.

Derek looks at him, horrified. "No," he says weakly. "Of course I - I want to be here. I want _you_ , Stiles."

Stiles' face softens very slightly. "Okay," he says. "So what's wrong? Don't lie; I can tell there's something going on."

"I just - " Derek exhaled forcefully. He hated talking about this, hated _thinking_ about it, but he hated the thought of Stiles not wanting him even more. "I've had sex _once_ , Stiles, six years ago, and it wasn't great. I don't - I don't know what I'm doing."

Stiles blinks. "You do realize you're talking to a virgin, right?"

"I know," Derek says softly. "I just - I want things to be good for you."

"And they will," Stiles sighs, catching Derek's face in his hands, forcing him to make eye contact. "I'm sure things will be weird at first, but they'll get better. We'll learn together, okay? And even when things are weird, it's okay, because it's _you,_ dude. I'm not interested in you for the sex - that's just like the icing on the cake, okay? I like _you,_ not just your rockin' bod."

"Are you sure?" Derek asks quietly.

"Course I am," Stiles replies, and Derek listens to his heart beating steadily. No lie in his words. Stiles lets go of his face and leans over the side of the bed to grab his laptop. 

Derek raises his eyebrows. "What are you doing?"

Stiles grins. "We're learning together, right? What better way to learn than from some instructional videos?"

"Porn, you mean," Derek says, settling down beside Stiles. 

"Hey, hey," Stiles says, slapping at his leg. "Don't get comfortable; we've got to follow along."


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the kid!Sterek verse from [chapter four](http://archiveofourown.org/works/820401/chapters/1559901). I asked my Twitter [followers](https://twitter.com/Grimm_times/status/354751439916113920) for an age & situation prompt, and [Sam](taidou.tumblr.com) suggested Derek age 12, Stiles age 7, and bullies. There were plenty of other meetings before this one that I'm sure I'll explore in time.
> 
> Rating: General  
> Applicable Tags: kid!Sterek, funerals, bullies

Derek is twelve when his mother gently takes him by the shoulders and tells him to stay away from his mate. 

"You're almost a teenager," Talia says softly. "Your body's going to start changing and it's going to get hard to control your wolf. If you go near Stiles, you're putting both of you in danger. Do you understand?"

Derek nods miserably. He could hurt Stiles and Stiles is only seven, far too young to know about him, what Derek is, what _Stiles_ is.

But in a town as small as Beacon Hills, it's harder to keep his promise to his mother than he thought it would be. He sees his mate all over the place; at the grocery store, at the library, at the soccer field. Derek's usual route home from the middle school leads him past the elementary school, so he has to find a new way to the house. Every day he comes home and doesn't smell like Stiles earns him a proud smile from his mother. 

What's worse, though, is that Derek can _feel_ Stiles sometimes, when he's particularly upset or angry, even when he's happy. And as a young kid with a lot of energy, Stiles feels _everything_ vibrantly and, as a result, Derek feels it too. It's hard to ignore and it gets worse after a few months, when Stiles suddenly feels miserable every single day. It gets worse and worse, anguish sitting in Derek's heart like a lead weight, until one day it's so unbearable that Derek sits at the breakfast table, twelve years old, and cries. Laura laughs at him until Talia snaps at her and makes her clean all the bathrooms as a punishment. She takes Derek and curls with him on the couch, one hand pressed to his brow, humming and soothing, until he falls into an uneasy sleep.

The reason for Stiles' distress becomes clear a few days later, when Talia is reading the newspaper and gasps softly, putting a hand over her mouth. "Oh, baby," she says, taking Derek's hand and squeezing it. "His mom died."

Derek's face goes white, remembering Mrs. S. and her kind voice, sunny days in her classroom. "Can we go to the funeral?" he asks hoarsely. 

"Of course, sweetheart."

Talia takes Derek to buy him a suit and they go to the church where the service is held and they stand in the back, listening to a priest bemoan the loss of such a bright soul. Derek leans against his mom, her arm firmly around his shoulder, and he watches the back of Stiles' head. Stiles is so small, sitting with his head bowed and shoulders hunched while the sheriff sits next to him, a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. Derek can smell the heartbreak rolling off Stiles and it turns his stomach. He whimpers softly, frightened for Stiles, frightened for the loss of his own mother, and Talia leans down and kisses the top of his head.

After the service, Talia lets him go up to the front and he mumbles, "I'm sorry," to the sheriff before turning to Stiles. Behind him, Talia offers her condolences to Stiles' father and Derek hears her, faintly, but most of his attention is on the small boy in the too-large suit in front of him. Stiles clutches at the hem of his jacket, eyes flitting around the church nervously. 

"Hey Stiles," Derek says awkwardly, and Stiles' amber eyes focus on him. 

"Hi Derek," Stiles mumbles. He's got a couple teeth missing and he whistles through the gaps anxiously.  

"I," Derek says hesitantly. "I'm sorry about your mom."

"Me too," Stiles whispers, his face puckering. Derek can smell the sadness rolling in, about to crash like a tidal wave. The sheriff senses it too, turns and says, "Oh - " but before either of them can react, Stiles flings himself forward, arms wrapping around Derek's chest like a cable, sobbing into his new suit. Derek looks over at his mother, terrified she's going to pull him away, but she just nods sadly. Derek hesitantly returns Stiles' embrace. He's nearly a foot taller than Stiles at this point, and it's awkward standing there, but there must be something that soothes Stiles because his body slowly relaxes and he stops crying. He lets go of Derek eventually and wanders over to his father without a word, reaching out and clutching at his big hand. Talia takes Derek home. 

Derek's walking home nearly a month later when he feels a stab of anxiety from Stiles. Stiles' feelings had gradually faded after the funeral, still there but less intense. This burst of unhappy energy brings Derek's head up, scenting the air. It stabs at him again, frightened and distressed, and Derek's feet are moving before he has time to think, carrying him down the long, quiet streets of Beacon Hills.

Derek's only a few blocks from the elementary school when he spots Stiles, trotting down the sidewalk with a Batman backpack slung over his shoulders. There are two older boys trotting along on either side of him - not Derek's age but maybe ten or so. They're shoving at Stiles and Derek can hear them taunting him. They're laughing because his mom is dead and Stiles has his head down and he's not crying but Derek can smell the tears burning in his eyes. One of the boys pushes Stiles hard enough to fall and Derek smells his skin tear on the concrete.

Derek snarls, low and furious, setting a hound a few houses back howling. Stiles doesn't turn but the older boys do and their faces pale when they see Derek tearing down the street after them, eyes burning blue. They scream, high-pitched and shrill, and cut and run. Derek is satisfied to see one of them trip and smack his face into the concrete before scrambling up again, nose leaking copious amounts of blood. Stiles has finally gotten to his feet and turned to see what's going on. He beams when he sees Derek. 

"Hi!" Stiles exclaims cheerfully, a wide smile splitting his face. He acts like nothing is wrong, but Derek can still smell the unease on him, the slight burn of salt water in his eyes. His hands and knees are bleeding from where he hit the sidewalk.

"Hi," Derek says. He nods to where the boys who'd been bullying Stiles are disappearing around the corner. "Do they bother you a lot?"

"Sometimes," Stiles says, his mouth going hard and unhappy. "They think it's funny. About Mom."

"Do you want me to walk with you?" Derek asks and Stiles nods without hesitating. They walk together toward the Stilinski house and Stiles talks non-stop. He tells Derek how his class is raising frogs from tadpoles and how they get to take one home if there's enough frogs for everyone. He tells Derek about his best friend Scott and how Stiles dared him to eat a bee and he _did,_ he _did,_ Derek, and then he had to go to the hospital because it turned out he was slightly allergic to bees and then Stiles got yelled at by his dad _and_ Scott's mom. He tells Derek how he doesn't really like the lady who watches him after school. She won't let him watch television and her idea of a snack is carrots and peanut butter and Stiles wants _Gushers._

Stiles' chatter lasts them all the way to the block his house sits on before he suddenly goes quiet. Derek glances down at him and sees him staring at his house. The scent of misery is growing on him again. Derek wonders if he's afraid of the house, if it feels too empty now that his mom is gone. He wonders if Stiles has nightmares. 

They reach the walkway to the front door of the house and Stiles stops, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the pavement. Derek looks up at the house and sees a woman appear at the front door, watching them. She looks kind, but bland. 

"Thanks for walking with me," Stiles mutters. 

"You're welcome," Derek says politely. He glances toward the house again and then says, "If those guys bother you again, tell me, okay? I won't let them hurt you." 

"Okay," Stiles says quietly. 

Derek hesitates again. He knows his mom will be furious, but he can't let Stiles get hurt. "Do you want me to walk with you every day?"

Stiles looks up at him hopefully. "Yes?"

"Okay," Derek says, grinning, and Stiles grins back. 

The woman in the house steps out onto the porch and Stiles takes his cue, trotting up the walk. He twists as he goes, shouting excitedly over his shoulder, "See you tomorrow, Derek!" 

Derek waves. When he gets home, Talia frowns, but her face softens when Derek tells her about the boys bullying Stiles. She doesn't tell him he can walk with Stiles, but she doesn't say no, either. 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Garden verse part six. Takes place before S03E07 and is now beginning to diverge from canonical events.[What is garden verse?](http://grimm-times.tumblr.com/post/54652889920/what-is-garden-verse) **

After the ill-fated track meet bus returns to Beacon Hills, after the long night at the motel and the uncomfortable sleep on the bus, after he stops his best friend from killing himself, after learning Derek's dead, after the longest forty-eight hours of his life, all Stiles wants to do is curl up in his bed. He wants to push his face into his pillow and scream. He wants to go out into the woods and cry for Derek. He wants to sit with Scott and never let him out of his sight again. 

Stiles doesn't do any of these things. He grabs his bag off the bus and walks slowly out to the parking lot and drives home. His dad is already there, making himself a dinner that, Stiles notes approvingly, is severely lacking in carbohydrates. He looks surprised to see Stiles come through the door.

"You're early," the sheriff says. 

Stiles nods, quiet. "Meet was cancelled," he explains. 

His father tilts his head, considering his son quietly. "You want to eat?"

Stiles blinks tiredly. He doesn't - not really - but he nods anyway, and drops his bag on the floor. He sits at the table and watches his dad move around the kitchen, and he tells him about the trip. Stiles doesn't tell his father about all the things he'd like to, like how it felt to see Scott ready to set himself on fire, or how there's a hole burning in the pit of his stomach where all of Derek's warmth used to sit. Instead he smiles when his father passes him a bowl full of salad and jokes about the poor quality of their veggie burgers. He tries to pretend that everything is normal and tries to enjoy the fact that, for once, he and his father are spending a little time together. They don't get enough of it these days, and Stiles hates that. 

He hates it so much that after they clear away the dishes - the sheriff washing and Stiles drying, just like they have every meal since his mother passed - and the sheriff says, "You want to watch a movie?" Stiles just nods. 

He goes upstairs while the sheriff makes popcorn (and Stiles is tired enough that he's not going to fight with his dad over how much butter and salt goes into it), and he stands in the middle of his room and doesn't want to look at any of it. Every single thing in there reminds him of the life he's hiding from his father, of memories he can't share, and he hates it. The window's open and that hurts, because Derek will never come swinging through it again, and Stiles has to go over and slide it shut before he starts crying. He won't cry. He's not going to cry because his dad's downstairs waiting for him so that they can watch _The Avengers_ together. 

They watch the movie. Stiles doesn't really see it, but he's hyper-aware of his father's presence next to him on the couch. He notices the moment he falls asleep and that's when Stiles slips back upstairs, pulling his phone from his pocket as he goes. There are no messages from Scott. He doesn't really expect there to be - they only just got home, and he certainly hopes nothing's happened in the past few hours, but Stiles worries about him. They didn't really talk after the whole suicidal thing, mostly just slept on the way home.

Stiles is tired. Last night was tiring. He stands in the middle of his dark room, breathing quietly, staring down at his phone, and tries to blink back the tears suddenly swelling in his eyes. He tilts his head back, looking up at the ceiling, where there are glow-in-the-dark stars that no longer glow, and a dark stain from an ill-fated science experiment involving Mentos and Coke. He closes his eyes, the night breeze cool on his face, and - 

Stiles' eyes open. Breeze?

His window is open. His window, which he is one hundred percent sure he closed, is open, and all the air goes rushing out of his lungs. Stiles is tempted to close his eyes again but he does, instead turning, looking toward the dark space behind his door, and he's pretty sure there's something darker there, lurking. 

"Come out," he whispers, his throat dry, and a hand comes out of the darkness, pushes the bedroom door closed. Stiles backs up until his legs hit the bed as Derek comes out of the darkness, silent and whole and serious. 

"You fucking asshole," Stiles hisses, his words burning his tongue. "You fucking - " Derek puts out a hand like he wants to touch Stiles and Stiles jerks back, sending him sitting on the bed with a thump. Derek lowers his hand and Stiles swallows. "You can't send a fucking text?"

"My phone broke," Derek says quietly, his expression neutral, his eyes watching Stiles' face intently. 

Stiles looks down at his hands, glares at them like they've done something wrong. "You couldn't have borrowed one from someone?"

"I - don't have your number memorized. I had to wait until you came home." 

Stiles bites his lip, digs his teeth in until he tastes copper. "I thought you were dead," he mumbles. 

"Nearly," Derek says softly. He puts out a hand and touches Stiles' face, lifting his chin until he's forced to make eye contact. Stiles tries to pretend like he doesn't shiver at Derek's touch. Derek looks at him, steady and miserable, and says, enunciating clearly, "I'm sorry."

Stiles does close his eyes then because if he doesn't, he's going to cry, and even if he's figured out just how Derek feels about him, he's scared to let how he feels about Derek show (which is really only a comfort to him, because he knows Derek can smell it even if he can't admit it, and maybe that's good enough for the time being). He bites his lip again and brings his hand up to curl his long fingers around Derek's wrist. He can feel Derek's pulse under his fingertips, fast - faster than he'd thought it be - and he wonders if Derek's waiting to be forgiven. Stiles isn't sure he's ready for that yet, but he is ready for Derek's company, to make up for lost time. Even if that lost time was only two days, it was two days of thinking he'd lost something precious to him, and he can't face that again. 

"Stay tonight," Stiles says, or maybe he doesn't even say it at all, but Derek knows him well by this point. Too well, maybe, and maybe that should be worrying, but Stiles isn't worried. He slips out of his shirt and shimmies out of his jeans while Derek mirrors him and then they climb under the sheets together. Derek is a solid, reassuring line of heat against his back, one hand splayed across Stiles's stomach. 

Stiles holds his wrist, listens to the soft sound of him breathing, to the faint pulse of his heart, audible even to human ears. He wants to say something, something sappy and meaningful and frightening, but he keeps his mouth shut and listens to Derek. Alive. He's alive. 

Tomorrow they will have to talk; Stiles will tell Derek about the events at the motel and Derek will tell him how he went to the school for help and found only the English teacher, how she tried to kiss him and tell him to use his death to hide himself from the alphas. Derek will watch Stiles bite his lip until it bleeds again, will sense his fear that Derek will leave him, the taste of his insecurity burning Derek's tongue, and Derek will curl a hand around his wrist, press his fingers to his pulse, keep his gaze steady when he says, "You're the only one I'm interested in."

They aren't dating. There has been no discussion of labels or the future or what they really meant to each other, but it's pretty clear in the way that they keep gravitating toward each other, even when the worst happens, even when there are other things to worry about, that whatever it is between them isn't stopping any time soon. Maybe they will talk about that tomorrow, but it's more likely that they won't, forsaking word for touch.

For now, Stiles presses back against Derek and mumbles, "You left your jacket last time."

Derek rumbles low in his chest, rolling forward so Stiles is on his stomach and Derek covers him like a blanket. He presses his nose into the back of Stiles' neck, breathing soft against his hairline. "Knew I'd be back to pick it up," he murmurs and Stiles relaxes for the first time in forty-eight hours.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Five times Stiles accidentally leaves his stuff in Derek's loft & one time he does it on purpose. (Thanks for the idea, [Sam](taidou.tumblr.com)!)**

**One.**

Derek has just settled down on his ugly blue velvet couch when he hears the rapid beating of a heart that can only belong to Stiles Stilinski rapidly approaching. Derek frowns; the pack meeting ended ten minutes ago. He heard them all leave, and now Stiles is trotting back up the stairs, mumbling under his breath. Derek narrows his eyes and crosses the room, yanking open the door before Stiles can do it himself. Stiles nearly falls over. 

"Can I help you?" Derek asks suspiciously. 

"No need!" Stiles says cheerfully, ducking under his arm and bouncing into the apartment. "I left my phone somewhere."

Derek breathes out slowly and refuses to stare at Stiles' ass as he bends over the couch, pawing through the cushions.

"Found it!" Stiles crows triumphantly.

"Wonderful," Derek says flatly. "Now, get out."

Stiles pouts at him mockingly as he flounces - fucking _flounces_ \- out of the loft. Derek slams the door after him.

-

**Two.**

It's after a long night in the rain-drenched woods and Derek is bleeding and soaked to the skin. Cora gets to the shower first so Derek flops down onto the couch and waits for his turn, attention tuned to his body's slow healing, feeling every scrap of skin leech back into place. He's got his guard down, concentrating so hard on healing that he doesn't hear Stiles until he's bursting through the door. Derek jerks upright, snarling as his healing wounds pull and burn. 

"Hey," Stiles says, wholly unconcerned. "Do you - "

 _"Stiles,"_ Derek snaps. "I saw you _half an hour ago_."

"I know," Stiles says, looking a little injured. "But dude, I need that vest. My dad's going to notice it's gone."

Derek looks down at the kevlar vest Stiles insisted upon. It probably saved his heart from being gouged out several times this evening, but he's not feeling too grateful. Derek claws at the straps until he's free and then he throws the vest so hard it hits Stiles in the chest with a wet smack. He feels a little bad about that. Stiles twists his mouth, not looking very happy, picks up the vest, and leaves without another word. 

-

**Three.**

Derek's in the shower when Stiles shows up. Derek's finally got some fucking time to himself - Cora's gone to the mall, which he thinks sounds suspiciously normal - and he's got a hand around his dick and he's _loud_ , because he's alone and he can be. He hears the loft door open too late, hears Stiles call, "Derek? You home? I forgot my - " and that's when Derek comes, moan punched out of him. Derek's breath hitches at the way Stiles' heartbeat flutters, because he left the bathroom door open, of _course_ he did, and there is _no way_ Stiles did not just hear that. 

Stiles doesn't say anything else. He scrambles for something in the kitchen and then he's gone again, shutting the loft door so quietly that Derek probably wouldn't have heard it if he was human. He waits five, ten minutes before venturing out of the bathroom, and when he does he can _smell_ Stiles in the air. He smells like - like _lust._ Derek chokes and ducks back into the bathroom. He doesn't jerk off again, and certainly not to the thought of Stiles. He doesn't.

-

**Four.**

Derek spots it before Stiles and the rest of the pack are even out the door, Stiles' phone sitting on the coffee table. "Stiles," he says, picking it up, and his heart does a weird lurch at the almost hopeful look on Stiles' face. Derek raises the phone and Stiles pats his pockets, looking a little bewildered now. 

"Oh," Stiles says, and takes a step back so Derek can toss the phone to him. "Thanks."

He didn't mean to leave it - Derek can sense that - but his disappointment means something else. Derek swallows as Stiles leaves, watches the slump of his shoulders, grits his teeth at the easy way Scott throws an arm around him. He doesn't read the way Stiles is acting…but he wants to.

-

**Five.**

"You need to stop," Derek says, swinging himself through Stiles' window. Stiles left his hoodie in the loft _again_ , and Derek decided to forestall any more interruptions by returning it. His sudden appearance startles Stiles and he falls out of his desk chair with a shout of surprise. Derek is smugly triumphant; serves him right.

"Jesus," Stiles groans, picking himself up. "I need to stop what?"

Derek narrows his eyes at him. "Stop leaving your stuff at my place."

"So I'm scatterbrained," Stiles sighs, jerking his sweatshirt out of Derek's grip. "Sue me."

"You're doing it on purpose," Derek snaps. 

"Wha - I am _not,"_ Stiles protests. "Why would I - " His face suddenly goes bright red and Derek takes a step back at the rush of hormones. "I'm not," he finishes weakly, and now he won't meet Derek's eyes. Derek nods, a swift jerk of his chin, and tumbles out the window before he does something he'll regret later. He really needs to get a lock for the door to the loft.

-

**\+ One.**

Derek's not sure what's going on, but when he spots the phone sitting _in the fridge_ , he knows. He's ready when Stiles comes in thirty minutes later, grinning and loudly apologizing, reeking of nerves. Derek doesn't say anything; he follows Stiles as he half-heartedly searches the apartment. He leans in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, and tries not to smile at the way Stiles' scent goes guilty when he pulls the phone out of the fridge. 

"Sorry," Stiles says, turning around. "I'll lose my head next."

Derek lifts an eyebrow at him and finds it extremely gratifying, the way Stiles' cheeks go splotchy red. 

"Well," Stiles mumbles, "I should go."

"You should," Derek agrees. Stiles bites his lip and moves to scoot past Derek, but Derek puts out an arm, catches a hand on Stiles' chest. He can feel Stiles' heart hammer under his touch. "But you don't have to."

Stiles grins, wide and bright. "Good thing I found my phone," he says. "I gotta tell my dad I'll be late for dinner."


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this](http://scoutsxhonor.tumblr.com/post/55905694332/rozf-teen-wolf-press-room-i-have-been) prompt & photo! I couldn't resist. :D
> 
> Rating: General  
> Applicable Tags: Fake boyfriends, Fluff

Stiles doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything about how his feet ache and he's been standing for hours and he doesn't have stupid werewolf stamina. He doesn't say anything about how it's been three hours since dinner and he's kind of starving and all he's had since were a couple of beers and they definitely aren't helping the whole keeping him on his feet situation. Everyone here is a werewolf; they can't get drunk - they wouldn't understand. 

He doesn't say anything about how the other alphas keep getting too close to him. How their fingers linger on his wrists when they shake his hand, how they deliberately bump up against him as they move through the crowded conference room. How they _sniff_ at him when they think he's not paying attention, like he's some luscious treat waiting to be consumed. How he's pretty sure that weird alpha from the Mojave actually touched his ass as she slipped past. 

Derek would notice, he's pretty sure, if Stiles was actually his mate, but he's not. And Derek's busy, anyway, chatting in a more animated way than Stiles has ever seen him, and that's why he won't say anything. This conference is important for Derek; he said there hasn't been a Hale represented at the alpha conference since his mom died, and Stiles knows it's important for him to make a good impression, especially after everything that's happened. He's enjoying himself and Stiles can see it; his eyes are bright and he's smiling more than he ever has (and his smiles are not barely-contained grimaces of fury or fear; they are light and he actually seems to _mean_ them). He keeps touching his neck, dragging his fingernails against the scruff on his chin with a scratching noise Stiles can hear. Derek looks shy, confident, happy, all in one, and Stiles isn't going to ruin this for him, even if the weird alpha from the Mojave has just felt him up again.

So he tilts his head and listens to the conversation flow around him, smiles when he needs to, tries not to cross his arms over his chest because that's a defensive move and no one's defensive here, no siree. He tries to ignore all the curious eyes staring at them; he knows they're an odd pair, a new alpha and a human boy, and he's frankly surprised that their charade has lasted this long. Not even their own pack thought they'd make it. Maybe the others do suspect something; make that's why they flirt with Stiles, touch his arms, smile beguilingly. Has Derek noticed anything at all? Stiles lifts his tired eyes to Derek's face and Derek glances down at him. His expression doesn't change, and he doesn't break off from his conversation with the alpha from Kentucky, but he bumps his shoulder against Stiles', a sort of acknowledgement, and Stiles nods and blinks slowly.

He's so tired he barely notices fifteen minutes later when Derek somehow manages to wrap up his conversation without offending anyone and pushes Stiles in the direction of the elevator banks. He's so tired he doesn't notice he's leaning against Derek as they wait for an elevator. Derek bears his weight silently, and when an elevator finally comes Stiles steps inside automatically and slumps against the mirrored wall, breathing a sigh of relief when the doors close and it's only them inside.

"You okay?" Derek asks quietly. 

Stiles lifts his head, heavy as lead, to blink at Derek. "Tired," he says. 

Derek rolls his eyes. "I can see that." His face softens. "I mean - are you _okay?_ The others alphas, they - kept touching you."

Stiles scrubs a hand across his eyes as the elevator starts to rise, jerking into movement. "I'm fine," he says quietly. "I'm not gonna - I'm not going to start any fights."

"You could have said something to me," Derek says. "I wasn't sure if you - if you needed me."

Stiles breathes out slowly. "I'm tired," he says again. 

Derek shifts, looking a little uncomfortable, then crooks a finger at Stiles. Stiles raises an eyebrow and Derek gestures again. He takes Stiles by the wrist when he steps forward, pulling him into his side. Stiles stiffens, but Derek doesn't let him go, curling an arm around his waist. "I've got you," Derek says softly and Stiles breathes out again, relaxing into the warmth of his body. He lifts his arms, fingers curling against Derek's shoulder blades, and breaths in the soft, smoky smell of him.

"You owe me," Stiles says, his voice muffled by Derek's shoulder. "A massage, at least."

Derek's fingers tense against his hip, digging in gently before releasing. "I think," Derek says, as the elevator chimes softly, announcing their arrival at their floor, "that that can be arranged." 


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Got a request on tumblr for a follow up to [this ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/820401/chapters/1553998). (Disclaimer: I know nothing about Santa Fe or New Mexico or really the western US at all. I have taken great liberties with Pecos.)
> 
> Rating: General  
> Applicable Tags: Stiles POV

The minute he drops his dad off at the airport, Stiles guns the Jeep and speeds off into the desert. He has been in New Mexico for four days and there's been an itch under his skin the entire time, pulling at him while he attends orientations and walks in tours and has dinner with his dad. 

He knows he's probably being stupid. By choosing this school he's locked himself into a least a semester in New Mexico, if not longer. It's been two years since he's seen Derek Hale, two years since they had their - whatever you want to call it. Scott thinks he's dumb and Stiles agrees. Derek could be dead by now, could be married, could have moved on long ago, and here he is, in the heart of the desert, because he's obsessed with a man he knew for little over a year. Stiles shakes his head determinedly. Even if Derek's not interested, or not even around, this will be an experience.

Forty minutes later he finds himself driving down what seems to be the main street of Pecos, New Mexico, spotted with small houses and aging businesses. It's only now that Stiles is realizing that this might be difficult. He doesn't know if Derek's even using the same name. He has to try, though; he's come all this way. This is a small town; there's got to be someone who knows him, or remembers a stupidly handsome stranger coming to town two years back.

Stiles pulls up in front of the general store and hops out of the Jeep. It's hot here, different from the heat in northern California and sweat beads on his skin in the time it takes him to walk from the Jeep to the store's front door. Inside, it's empty except for an older woman behind the counter. She leans on the counter and nods outside toward the Jeep, a friendly smile quirking her lips. "California plates," she says conversationally. "You going camping, hon?"

"Not exactly," Stiles says, sticking his hands in his pockets. "I'm looking for someone, actually. Do you think you might be able to help me?"

"You can try," the woman tells him. "I've owned this place twenty five years. I've seen a lot of people come through."

Stiles takes a deep breath, steadying himself. Life was quiet after Derek left, the alpha pack gone, Scott taking over alpha duties. There'd been no disturbances in town for a long time. He hopes the trouble didn't follow Derek here. "His name's Derek," he says to the woman. "Moved here probably - "

She's already nodding and his heart lifts. "Derek Hale," she says. "Quiet boy. You're friends?"

Stiles nods and she smiles. "He works at the auto shop about a mile down."

"Thanks," Stiles says quickly, tripping over his feet to get out the door. "Thank you!" 

The woman waves as he clambers into the Jeep and tears into the street. He forces himself to slow down because he really doesn't need a ticket, and breathe. Breathing is good and helpful and healthy, but it's hard to pull in the air when he spots the sign for the mechanic's and pulls into the yard. There are a few cars parked out front. One's got the hood popped and a man leans over it, his torso almost invisible inside the car. That's not Derek, Stiles thinks, leaping out of the Jeep, his sneakers hitting the dirt with a reassuringly solid thump. Not unless Derek's let himself go to seed. He has a hard time imaging Derek fat. 

The man props himself up on one elbow to squint at Stiles and mutters, "Aw, hell. Hale!" he hollers suddenly, making Stiles jump. "Customer! I got my hands tied with this leak!"

Stiles' mouth goes dry. He's scared, suddenly, so scared. Derek's not going to want him, won't remember him, he'll have a girlfriend, a kid, a reason to keep away from him. Stiles clutches at the door handle, convinced this was a horrible idea because there's Derek, fucking Derek, coming out of the garage looking far more handsome than he should be allowed to be. The southern sun has tanned his skin even darker and he's got his head turned, laughing at something someone back in the garage has said, and Stiles has never seen him laugh before, never seen him flash those brilliant white teeth in anything but a snarl. Derek's not going to want him; he's the same lanky pale kid he's always been, wearing clothes that are too big and - and Derek sees him. Stiles knows he does because the smile fades off his face and he stops walking, the kind of stillness coming over his body that Stiles has never been able to emulate. Stiles regrets ever coming here. 

"Stiles," Derek says, low, but his voice carries. 

"Hey," Stiles says weakly and blinks, because Derek's suddenly in front of him, hand reaching out like he wants to touch him - but he yanks his arm back at the last second, looking confused and guarded and slightly suspicious. He looks like Derek, basically, the Derek he knew in Beacon Hils. "Hey," Stiles says again. 

"You came," Derek says quietly, so soft Stiles almost missed it. "You're…in the area?"

Stiles snorts. It's a relief to be able to cover the nervous roiling of his stomach with sarcasm. "Small New Mexican town in the middle of nowhere? Sure, dude."

"Then - "

"College," Stiles tells him. "In Santa Fe."

Derek looks like he thinks Stiles is playing a prank on him, mouth pulled thin and uneasy. "What are you majoring in?"

"Creative Writing," Stiles says, hitching one side of his mouth up in a grin. "Apparently I have a talent for wild stories."

One corner of Derek's mouth twitches and he says, "That's true."

Stiles grins half-heartedly. This hurts, seeing Derek and not knowing him any more. His eyes drop to the dirt as he says, "I missed you."

Derek exhales forcefully and takes him by the upper arm, hauling him around to the back of the Jeep where the mechanic leaning over the car and whoever's in the garage can't see him. He pushes Stiles against the car, pinning him with his whole body, kissing him like he's about to die. Stiles has to lock his arms around Derek's neck because he thinks his knees will collapse if he doesn't, opening his mouth in an invitation Derek accepts fiercely, licking into his mouth until Stiles has to jerk his head back, gasping for air. Derek pulls back just enough to let Stiles breath, resting his forehead against Stiles'. 

"Why'd you come here?" he asks softly, watching Stiles through his long lashes. 

"I told you," Stiles replies, tightening his grasp on Derek's neck. "Don't fucking leave me."

"I won't," Derek breathes. "Never again."


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the "zipcode" fic started in chapter one and continued in the previous chapter. Another anon request on tumblr, I consider this verse closed. :D
> 
> Rating: Teen  
> Applicable Tags:

Stiles goes to class every day but on Friday nights he drives out to Pecos to spend every minute he can with Derek. Sometimes Derek comes to Santa Fe and they wander the streets together, eating at a different restaurant every time, drinking at bars (Stiles drinks; Derek glares at anyone who looks at them - he has softened since he left Beacon Hills, but he still protects what's his). They become "Facebook official" in October, even though Derek doesn't have a Facebook. The status gets fifty-three likes and one prissy comment from Jackson that makes Derek rolls his eyes and muttering about missed chances to kill. The sheriff isn't happy but, Stiles reassures Derek, he's a thousand miles away in California and Stiles is tight with the dispatcher, who will tell him if his dad heads their way in a murderous mood. Derek is not wholly reassured.

They spend four years in the desert, happy. They bicker like a married couple but their fights always end in aggressive sex up against a wall or on a counter or, on one memorable occasion, the shady far end of the local supermarket parking lot against the side of the Jeep. After his second year at school, Stiles moves in to Derek's one-story house at the foot of the mountains. It's a forty-minute drive to school every day but it's so worth it. They are safe and whole and content; after Derek left Beacon Hills, his betas turned to Scott and Derek lost his powers as an alpha. He's an omega now, a threat to no one, which means there will be no more packs hunting them down. 

At Stiles' graduation, the sheriff grudgingly shakes Derek's hand. He gets drunk at dinner and tells Derek stories about Stiles as a kid, stories that have Stiles' cheeks flooding red and him tugging at his father's arm, trying to get the whiskey out of his hands. 

They move to Reno; they have both discovered that they like the desert, but it placates the sheriff a little bit now that they're only three hundred miles away, not a thousand. There's a pack there, long established, that welcomes Derek with open arms, and every full moon is a night of celebration and laughter. It's a far cry from the dark, frightening nights in Beacon Hills though they do return to California a few times a year - for Christmas with the sheriff, for Isaac and Allison's wedding. For their wedding a few years later, when Derek slips a ring that had belonged to his great-grandfather, long kept safe in a safety deposit box at Beacon Hills National Back, on Stiles' finger. 

When Derek left Beacon Hills, Stiles had sat on the bed in his abandoned loft and stared at a piece of paper. He'd been sixteen years old and he'd seen people die. He'd seen people turn into wolves. He'd been frightened and panic and scared out of his mind countless times. He'd laid in bed with a man who could easily rip him from limb to limb but he'd never felt safer with anyone. He'd sat on the bed, paper clutched in his hands, and the ache of Derek's disappearance had started there at that moment, and it hadn't gone away until the moment he arrived in Pecos and saw Derek come out of the auto shop. He hadn't been sure, when Derek left, that they'd been in love, but the moment he saw Derek again he knew he'd been wrong.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Garden verse part seven! Takes places after the events of S03E07, continues through S03E08 & E09. [What is garden verse?](http://grimm-times.tumblr.com/post/54652889920/what-is-garden-verse)**

The night Boyd dies, Derek disappears, but not until later. He comes to Stiles' window first, hours after they've taken Boyd's body to Deaton and cleaned the water from the loft floor. Isaac goes back to Scott's and Stiles doesn't linger in the loft. He doesn't know what Derek wants and doesn't dare ask him with everyone around, but he makes sure he makes eye contact before he leaves, makes sure Derek nods and knows he's welcome if he needs it.

Stiles isn't sure how Derek deals with grief. After Erica, he didn't really talk about it - no one really talked about it, which they really should have. But tonight, after Boyd - Stiles sits at his desk and bites his lip. He'd been able to feel Derek shaking, tremors wracking his body, when he'd put his hand on his shoulder. It worries him; he's never seen Derek raw like that, so open and hurt. It hadn't felt right leaving him there with Cora all sad and angry, but he hadn't - some part of him didn't dare, didn't know if Derek needed or wanted his company.

It's nearing midnight and he hasn't heard from him. Stiles fiddles with his phone and he's just decided to text Derek when the aforementioned appears in his window. He looks like death, heavy-eyed and thin-lipped.

"Hey," Stiles says softly, swallowing. "Do you - " He stops, not sure what to say. Derek blinks slowly. He looks utterly exhausted. "Do you want to go to bed?"

Derek rubs a hand over his face and mutters, "Yeah."

Stiles shuts his computer and walks over to the window as Derek stands, steadying him with one hand. This seems to have become a trend as of late; Derek wounded, exhausted to the point of near collapse, standing in front of Stiles with all his defensive walls in pieces. He leans his head against Stiles' shoulder as Stiles unzips his jeans and pushes them down his hips. Stiles can hear him breathing, harsh, like it hurts.

"Hey," Stiles murmurs, nudging at Derek so he lifts his feet out of his pants. "Are you hurt - physically, I mean?"

"No," Derek breathes, lifting his head so Stiles can pull off his shirt.

"Okay," Stiles says, though he's not sure Derek's telling the truth. "Into bed, c'mon."

He watches Derek crawl between the sheets before pushing off his pants and climbing in after him. His bed is small but it doesn't matter because they lay close together, Derek's back against Stiles' chest.

"You can - talk to me," Stiles says hesitantly. "If you want to."

Derek's quiet for a long time before he twists suddenly, rolling Stiles onto his back and covering him like a blanket. He's hot, too hot, but Stiles doesn't say a word because Derek's got his face pressed into the crook of his neck and Stiles can feel dampness there, seeping into the collar of his t-shirt. He wraps his arms around Derek's shoulders and stays still for a long time, staring up at the ceiling while Derek breathes wetly against his skin.

Derek falls asleep eventually, his heartbeat steadying and his breathing slowing down. Stiles is awake for a long time, absently drawing abstract patterns on Derek's shoulder blades while he thinks about everything. The sky is turning gray by the time he falls asleep and when he wakes up to the sound of his alarm, Derek is gone.

Stiles doesn't hear from Derek for days. He texts and calls him with no response and when he finally gives up and goes to the loft, he finds that Cora and Peter don't know where he's gone either.

Peter tells them a long story about Derek as a teenager and the girl he'd been in love with. It hurts Stiles to hear - not because he's jealous, but because it's just another aching wound in Derek's history. All he wants for Derek is for him to be happy, to be safe, to live without worry. It seems like an unrealistic dream.

He stops trying to find Derek, though, and tries not to worry. If Derek wants time to himself, Stiles will give him that. The waiting hurts almost as bad as thinking he was dead those two awful days, but no one else seems worried about him and Stiles doesn't know whether to be reassured or offended by that.

It's not until a few days later, when Stiles is sitting in the back of the ambulance holding Cora's limp hand, that he tries contacting Derek again. "Hey," he says unsteadily when he gets Derek's voicemail. Stiles lifts his head, looking out the ambulance's back window to where his dad's cruiser is flying along behind them. "I - It's Stiles. I know you've been off the grid, but you gotta come back. Cora's hurt. She - We're headed to the hospital. I - I don't know what's wrong with her." Stiles hangs up, his mouth dry.

Cora is hustled away at the hospital and Stiles follows his father through the crowded hallways, trying one last desperate time to get him to understand. He's frustrated and suddenly his dad's yelling at him, bellowing, "I am listening! I have _been_ listening!"

Stiles takes a step back, blinking. Everyone's staring at them and his father's mouth snaps shut, face flushing red. "You just don't believe," Stiles says quietly.

His dad turns, giving up on him again. Just more of Stiles' lies to shoulder. Stiles' heart twists and the words slip out before he can snatch them back: "Mom would have believed me." It's a low blow, the lowest blow. Stiles knows that and he feels sick for using her.

His dad stops and Stiles' stomach churns at the way his shoulders tense - and then he keeps walking like nothing's happened. That hurts worse, that his dad doesn't even get upset. Stiles blinks against the burning in his eyes and goes to see if there's any news of Cora.

A nurse points him in the direction of her room and he stops dead when he opens the door. Derek's sitting by her bed, one of her hands clasped in his. Stiles' breath rattles from him in relief when he sees Derek, apparently well and whole. Derek looks up at him, his pale eyes flicking up his body, but he doesn't say anything.

"H-how's she doing?" Stiles asks, nodding toward Cora. Derek looks at his sister, white bandage wrapped around her head, her eyes closed.

"Something's wrong," Derek says quietly. "She's not healing."

Stiles takes a step forward, letting the door swing shut behind him. "Is she going to be okay?"

"I don't know," Derek says. He gets to his feet slowly, tilting his head to one side, a frown creasing his face. "What's wrong?"

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath. "Nothing," he says, and winces because he knows Derek can hear the lie.

"I'm sorry," Derek says immediately. "For disappearing."

"No, no," Stiles says hurriedly. "If you needed it or whatever. I just - I'm glad to see you're okay.

Derek's frown turns slightly perplexed. "You were worried about me?"

Stiles laughs uncomfortably, running a distracted hand through his hair. "Yeah, I - I kind of love you, dude. Of course I - "

He stops at the way Derek's head comes back sharply, his eyes going wide. "Sorry," Stiles says, his cheeks flooding red. He hadn't - he'd been _thinking_ it for a while, since the end of summer, maybe, and he'd figured out how Derek felt that night after he kicked Isaac out, but he - he hadn't been planning on saying it. There was too much going on, not enough time for them to talk. They still hadn't even told anyone they were dating - they hadn't even agreed that they were _dating_ yet. "I - "

But Derek's shaking his head and Stiles stops again. "Are you sure you want to say that to me?" Derek asks quietly. He jerks his head toward Cora. "I - don't exactly have the best track record with people I care about."

"Just shut up," Stiles says irritably. "Stop being a martyr. I told you; I'm not letting you give up, and you're not allowed to try and push me away. I'm not going anywhere."

Derek's face relaxes then and he steps forward. Stiles lets himself be crowded back against the wall, one of Derek's big hands cupping the back of his neck, pulling him forward for a deep kiss. It's been a while - with the accursed track trip and Boyd and everything - and Stiles sighs, relaxing into him.

Derek pulls back after a while, breathing soft against Stiles' mouth. He presses his forehead to Stiles', eyes closed. He looks tired again, Stiles thinks, touching Derek's rough cheek. "I don't care that you left," he says, which is a half truth. "I just wish you'd given me a heads up."

"I'm sorry," Derek says again, his eyes still closed. "I wasn't thinking straight."

"I get that," Stiles says. "But like - the last time. I thought you were dead."

"I won't do it again," Derek tells him, twisting his face, nuzzling against Stiles' neck. He slips his hand under Stiles' shirt, fingers warm against his stomach. "You're still stressed," he says quietly. "Is something else going on?"

"I - " Stiles heaves a sigh. "My dad," he says. "I tried to tell him - about everything, and he just - he won't believe me."

"He's stubborn," Derek hums against his skin. "That's where you get it from."

"I'm not joking around!" Stiles says, frustrated. Derek straightens, his face growing serious. Stiles gestures violently. "Something's going to happen. More people are going to die and I can't get him to understand! He doesn't get it - he's in danger too and I _can't_ lose him!"

"Stiles," Derek says steadily, catching his face between his hands. "Calm down. I'll help you."

"No," Stiles says miserably. "Not you. He's going to find out about us eventually and he _might_ forgive you for being so old - "

"Hey," Derek protests mildly.

" - but I don't think he could get over you being a werewolf _and_ the fact that you're dating his underage son." Stiles sighs again. He feels as tired as Derek looks, suddenly. "I'll get Scott to do it." As if he's summoned him, his phone buzzes in his pocket, a message from Scott. "I've got to get over to the school - are you coming?"

"I - " Derek's eyes slide to Cora, still unconscious in the hospital bed. 

"Don't worry about it," Stiles says immediately. 

"Call me," Derek says. "If anything goes wrong."

"Of course it will," Stiles grins humorlessly. "It's Beacon Hills."

Derek pulls him into one last embrace, pressing a kiss to his temple. "There will be time to talk later," he says softly. "About us. I think we should."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees. "I'd like that."


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pillow forts and blow jobs and cold hands for [Renqa](hushlittlewolf.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Rating: Explicit  
> Tags: Blow jobs, domestic!Sterek

Derek comes home to find a blanket fort in the middle of the living room. It's well built, walls fortified with couch cushions, canopied with the spare sheets from the hallway closet. It's a good fort, one of the best he's seen, and he's seen quite a few lately. He can hear the faint sounds of what sounds like _Battlestar Galactica_ coming from within. The whole structure radiates tension. Derek stands still for a long moment, watching the blankets, and then he goes into the bedroom. He takes a long shower, washing the grime of the construction site off, and changes into a t-shirt and sweatpants.

The air is cold when he steps into the living room; their furnace has been running at half power and they're waiting on the landlord to come fix it. Derek eyes the tent for another long moment before getting to his knees, lifting a sheet, and crawling inside.

Stiles is inside, curled on his side, cocooned in the eiderdown from their bed, watching tv on his laptop. He doesn't look at Derek; he's concentrating a little too hard on the computer screen, but Derek knows it's not him Stiles is mad at by the way Stiles shifts over, leaving a space between his back and the front of the couch. Derek slides into it, worming his way into the bundle of blankets with Stiles, draping a heavy across over his stomach. He watches what he can see of Stiles' face for a moment and calculates it to be another hour or two before Stiles is ready to talk. Derek presses his forehead to the smooth stretch of skin between Stiles' shoulder blades and goes to sleep instead.

When he wakes up, the room is dark, their tent only lit by the blue glow of the computer screen. Stiles is asleep against him, his breathing slow and easy. He no longer smells like stress, Derek thinks, pressing his nose to Stiles' hairline.

They lay there for a long time. Derek's content to hold Stiles until he wakes up, which he does about a half hour after Derek, coming out of a dream with an incoherent mumble and stretch of his arms that almost catches Derek in the face.

"Sorry," Stiles says sleepily, settling back against Derek.

Derek kisses the back of his neck, no apology needed. "You want to talk to me?" he asks. "Who was it this time?"

Stiles sighs. "Jenny Haniver," he says. "Or rather, Jenny Haniver's mother, the honorable Mrs. How Dare You Teach My Daughter That Evolution Is A Thing, I'm Going To Sue You Haniver."

"No one's going to sue you," Derek says soothingly.

"Dude, she burst into my fifth period class and started _screaming,"_ Stiles says. "I had to call the cops."

"Did your dad come?" Derek says, rubbing his hand along Stiles' ribs.

"Ugh, no, thank god," Stiles says. He heaves a huge sigh and rolls over, burying his head against Derek's chest, winding his arms and legs around him like an octopus. "Why are people so awful?" he asks, voice muffled.

Derek rested his chin on top of Stiles' head, wrapping himself around him more firmly. "Want me to find her house and bite her?"

"And take the chance that she might become a werewolf?" Stiles shudders. "No thanks; she's terrifying enough as she is."

"All right," Derek says peaceably. He slides his hands down Stiles' back, digging his fingers into the curve of his ass.

"Mm," Stiles says, stretching out languidly and curving his arms around Derek's neck. "You know why I love you?"

"Because I put up with how weird you are?"

Stiles smacks his shoulder lightly. "Hey, watch it. Your weird boyfriend was going to suck you off later, but now he's rethinking it."

"Good heavens," Derek says mildly. "That's quite the threat."

He can feel Stiles grin against his skin. "I love you," he says, "because I can build a pillow fort in the middle of the living room and you don't say a word and you get in with me."

"Mm," Derek says thoughtfully. "I did have to stop and wonder how old you are."

"Around five," Stiles replies, breathing noisily into the crook of his neck. "I expect soup when we get out of here."

"Is that before or after the blow job?" Derek asks, rolling them so Stiles' back is against the floor and Derek's knees straddle his hips. 

"Depends," Stiles says, making a petulant face. "Maybe I need a little more cheering up before I'm ready to emerge from this amazing piece of architecture I've constructed." 

Derek grins and opens his mouth to answer when Stiles slips his hands down the back of his sweatpants. He jolts backward. "Jesus Christ!" Derek hisses. "Your hands are like ice!" 

"Poor circulation," Stiles says mildly, but Derek can see the wicked glint in his eyes. Stiles flexes his cold fingers against Derek's ass and he shudders, ducking his head against Stiles' neck. 

"You're gonna pay for that," Derek mutters, biting at Stiles' collarbone before shifting down, hooking his fingers in the waist of his pants and pulling them down. 

"Yeah," Stiles breathes, shuddering when the cool air hits the exposed skin of his cock. "You teach me a lesson, puppy." 

If blow jobs could be a punishment, the one Derek gives Stiles then is torture. He keeps one hand on Stiles' hip, holding him still, while the other slips under him, one spit-slicked finger pressed inside him while Derek moves his head painfully slow, curling his tongue around the hot length of him, bobbing his head up and down at a snail's pace, savoring his taste like a fine wine. He watches Stiles, watches the way his head rolls back, his long neck curving, his mouth slack with quite _oh, oh, ohs._ He knows what he's doing, knows exactly how to keep Stiles on the edge for minutes, hours. He knows when it becomes too much, when Stiles' body is one continuous tense line, and Derek gives in then, consumes Stiles like he hasn't eaten for days, curls his finger inside him. Stiles comes with a jolt, his hands buried in Derek's hair, breath punched out of him. 

Derek kisses the inside of his thigh and props his chin on his hand, rubbing lazy circles into Stiles' stomach. "How you feeling?" he rumbles. 

"A thousand times better," Stiles says, nearly purring with content. He nudges Derek in the ribs with his knee. "Where's my soup?"

They eat beef stew because it's all that's in the cupboard and watch _Prison Break_. The apartment is cold but inside their fort it's warm and cozy, though Derek almost collapses it when Stiles sucks him off, as promised, and one of his feet smacks into a supporting wall. Stiles has quick reflexes, though, and saves them from death by suffocation. He leaves Derek tingling in the afterglow of his orgasm and when he comes back he has beer, regular for himself and tainted with wolfsbane for Derek. Stiles tries to teach Derek about Reddit and Derek squints at the screen and says, "I don't get it."

He doesn't get it, but he likes the way Stiles laughs fondly and says, "You adorable old man."

They get tired and tipsy and Stiles lays on his back while Derek leans over him with a marker he found under the couch, connecting his moles with dark lines. "What'd you make?" he asks sleepily, and Derek says smugly, "A giraffe." Stiles laughs and laughs until Derek steals his breath with kisses. 

They fall asleep, wrapped together in the warmth and soft light. They're both late for work the next morning because neither of them set an alarm but it's worth it for the evening that preceded it, and the way they woke up that morning, cocooned in blankets against the chill of the apartment, sore from the hard floor, but folded in each other, happy. 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More garden verse! Takes place after the events of S03E09. [What is garden verse?](http://grimm-times.tumblr.com/post/54652889920/what-is-garden-verse)
> 
> Rating: Teenish

There's a coolness to the air that breezes through the school's courtyard that seems to speak of storm on the horizon, pushing leaves and debris before it, biting cold across fingers and cheeks. Stiles doesn't recognize it, doesn't feel its cold chill. His head is buzzing with a white fog, consumed with no thought but _Dad, Dad, Dad._ There are others gathered around him - Scott and Lydia and Isaac. Allison's gone somewhere with her father. They're all talking and once in a while one of them will try to comfort him, tell him we'll find him, it'll be okay. But he knows it's not. Ms. Blake - the Darach, _fuck,_ ** _fuck_** \- has him and they've been late every time so far.

"No we haven't," Scott says and Stiles blinks, realizing he said that out loud. "We found Dr. Deaton. We'll find your dad."

"Uh huh," Stiles says dully, not believing a word of it.

The doomed recital is long over but the school is still busy; there are men and women from the sheriff's department milling around, collecting evidence from scene of the piano player's death. Stiles can see a couple deputies standing under the broken window the Darach escaped - _flew?_ \- from with his father in tow. Fuck.

Stiles rubs at his eyes, breathing in deeply. He can't lose his dad. He can't. He can't lose the person more precious to him than anything. He'd give his own soul to save his father's. He already lost his mom; he can't lose his dad too.

"Hey," Scott says. "What's Derek doing here?"

Stiles' head comes up sharply. Scott's right; Derek's stupid new car is whipping up in front of the school, jerking to an abrupt halt. Stiles lowers his head again, his heart aching. He's getting sick of these interactions in front of everyone else, where he has to pretend that he has no interest in Derek, like they haven't been hanging out for months, like Derek's never had Stiles' cock in his mouth, like they've never taken turns fucking each other into the mattress. It's wearing at him, heavier than he realized, and he wishes he hadn't told Derek he loved him, back in Cora's hospital room just hours ago. He wishes they'd had the time to come to some sort of a consensus about what they are, because he's sick of not knowing. He doesn't like this strange in between; he wants everything now, all or nothing. The term _fuck buddies_ does not sit well in his stomach. Most of all, he wishes he wasn't thinking about this, didn't have to, because _Dad._

"Derek," Stiles hears Scott say, but Derek's saying roughly, "I told you to _call,"_ and he's close, closer than he should be, and he sounds like he's saying that to _Stiles_ and he shouldn't be, because they're not friends, Derek's not supposed to care about him. There's a hand under his elbow pulling him up, up, up, and he has a split second to see Derek's expression, tense and angry and worried, before Derek's arms wrap tight around him. And Stiles, he - it's such a relief that he moves without thinking, lifting his arms and pressing his face into the crook of Derek's neck, seeking the warmth that has become so much more than simple touch - Derek's solid and secure and he holds Stiles so firmly, even when the others are shifting in surprise around them. He can feel Derek move after a long moment, his head lifting to say, "What happened?" to Scott, but Stiles doesn't move. He doesn't want to see Scott's face, hurt and betrayed because Stiles kept this a secret for so long. He's tired and scared and he really doesn't need _more_ emotional turmoil tonight.

"I heard Lydia's scream from the hospital," Derek says more insistently, because no one's saying anything. "What the hell happened?"

Stiles forces himself to step away from Derek then, because even though he doesn't want to, _someone_ has to explain and if no one else is going to speak up, he'll have to. Derek's hands follow him, slipping away from his waist, catching him by the wrist. "The Darach took my dad," Stiles tells Derek unhappily, forcing himself to look at Scott. He's weirdly heartened to see Scott doesn't look mad - he looks confused, his eyes slipping from Stiles, to Derek, to how their hands hang together, fingers clasped tight. He looks up at Stiles once more and nods shortly, just once, and Stiles relaxes. He knows Scott like the back of his hand and that short gesture tells him all he needs to know - that Scott's not going to get upset about this. He'll probably tease Stiles for years to come, but he won't say anything. Sometimes Stiles forgets how much Scott has grown since last year.

"Shit," Derek says, his hand tightening around Stiles'. "What's next?"

"Figuring out where he is," Scott says firmly. "Allison's got a map of the telluric currents and we can figure out where he's been taken."

"Let's go, then," Derek says swiftly. Even as everyone turns to the parking lot, though, Derek pulls Stiles to a halt. "We'll find him," he says.

Stiles gives him a half-hearted smile. "I really hope so. Thanks, though, and for this." He lifts their joint hands and Derek looks down at them.

"I know I said we'd talk," he says, "but you - "

"I know," Stiles says, laughing ruefully. "I made that fuss about staying in contact. I'm sorry."

"I just - I heard the scream," Derek says quietly. "And I didn't hear from you."

"Sorry," Stiles says again, more softly. "Turns out Lydia's a banshee and hey - Cora?"

"Fine," Derek says automatically, then winces, amending, "Fine as she could be." He turns toward the parking lot, pulling Stiles in his wake. Scott's already on his bike, roaring off down the road. Isaac's leaning against Derek's car, but Stiles can't see where Lydia went. "We'll find him," Derek says again, before they part. "I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Stiles warns, trotting across the lot to the Jeep. He finds Lydia there, arms folded across her chest.

"You're giving me a ride," she declares and Stiles nods, wordless, unlocking the door so she can climb in. He can feel her watching him as they pull out of the lot behind Derek's car. He's surprised she makes it as far as the stop light before saying, "You know, I'm not sure whether to be jealous or offended you never said anything."

"You were never going to say anything about Aiden," Stiles points out. 

"Maybe," Lydia shrugs, one side of her mouth twisting down unhappily. "But he doesn't mean anything. You and Derek - "

"Stop," Stiles says. "I've got other things to think about right now, okay?" 

Lydia sniffs haughtily. "I was just going to _say,"_ she says, "I think you'll be good for each other." And she reaches over, bumping her fist against Stiles' shoulder in a way that's entirely companionably, a sort of _we're all in this together_ gesture. And Stiles grins despite the worry churning in his stomach, because he's got friends that care about him, and a - a dude that has his back and his heart, and he's got a dad they're going to find safe and sound. 

Everything will be all right. 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked [Becky](http://winterkiss.tumblr) for a boarding school AU graphic set and she delivered with [this absolutely stunning piece](http://winterkiss.tumblr.com/post/58624961900/sterek-au-for-grimms-beacon-hills-academy-au), and I wrote this to go along with it.
> 
> Rating: Teen  
> Applicable Tags: Derek POV, Boarding School AU, panic attacks

Derek is going to kill Stilinski. This is the third time in a month - a _month_ \- that he's had detention. Before Stilinski showed up, he'd never had detention in his _life._ He doesn't know what it is about the boy that gets under his skin - his blatant disregard for the rules, the way he'll talk back to anyone, whether it be a student or a teacher, the way he grins, shallow, like nothing matters. It infuriates Derek and he keeps getting himself in trouble because of it. Stilinski is doing it right now; he's bent over, ostensibly picking trash up from under the bleachers at the side of the lacrosse field, but the way he's shaking his hips around tells Derek that's he's trying to get a rise out of him. Derek won't - he's not going to say a word to Stilinski ever again if that's what it takes to keep himself out of detention - so he grits his teeth and turns his back, crouching down to pick up discarded cigarette butts (and that's another thing that sets his teeth on edge, because _who_ is smoking under the bleachers? It's probably Stilinski and that stupid McCall).

"Hey," Stilinski says from behind him. Derek doesn't respond, doesn't turn, doesn't even blink. He grinds his teeth and breathes through his nose and picks up trash. "Hey," Stilinski says again. "After you're done popping all your blood vessels, you want to see if you can reach those cans?"

Derek turns around to glare at him. Stilinski grins cheerfully and points toward the very back of the bleachers, where he can see some aluminum cans glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

"You get them yourself," Derek bites out.

"No way," Stilinski says, sticking his hands into his pockets with great nonchalance. "I'd like to remind you that _you're_ the one who shoved me into the wall. The way I see it, it's your fault we're here, so you can worm your way back there and pick that shit up."

"My fault?" Derek spits, anger flooding his cheeks red with color. "You were drawing dicks on the headmasters' portraits!"

Stilinski shrugs carelessly. "And? No one would have caught me. You're the one who grabbed me." He tsks. "You're very violent, dude. You should probably see someone about that temper."

"Oh, you want to talk about _my_ attitude?" Derek snaps. "I'm not the one who's been kicked out of every private school in California!"

Something darkens on Stilinski' face, but he shrugs again. "Yeah? And if I keep on doing what I'm doing, I'll get kicked out of here, too."

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Derek asks furiously. "You should be grateful you've got parents who are paying for you to get such a good education!"

"Grateful?" Stilinski repeats. All the cheer drops from his face, an ugly expression twisting his mouth. It's the first time Derek's ever seen him look anything other than carefree. "Yeah, I'm super grateful my mom died and my dad thought it'd be a wonderful idea to use the insurance money to send me away from home so I can't help him keep his life together. I'm _sooooo_ grateful that I get to spend all my time rubbing shoulders with all you fucking rich pricks and every time I talk to my dad I can tell he's been drinking and he's that much closer to killing himself. Don't talk to me about gratitude, you stupid douchebag. You've got your prissy friends and your trust funds and your fancy cars and tailored uniforms and I've got - I've got nothing. I - " Stilinski shuts his mouth, turning away.

Derek opens his mouth. His cheeks are hot; he's not sure if it's the memory of the fire or the pure, clear hatred he feels, or the guilt, because it never occurred to him that Stilinski was anything other than a bratty little shit, but then he shuts his mouth, because he can hear Stilinski breathing heavily and it doesn't - it doesn't sound right. "Stilinski?" he asks cautiously.

Stilinski flips him off but he doesn't turn, his shoulders hunching, his breath rasping out of him. Derek steps forward, brow furrowing. "Are you - "

"Fuck - fuck _off,"_ Stilinski says hoarsely, the words tumbling from his lips in jagged pulses like he has to force them. He drops, crouching over the grass. Derek watches him fumble with his collar, pulling it at it like he can't breathe. Derek swallows nervously. He may not like him, but he's not going to let Stilinski _die_.

"What should I - should I go get someone?" Derek asks him. "Do you have asthma? Do you need - "

"Shut _up,"_ Stilinski grates, his eyes fluttering shut. "I'm - it's - panic attack."

"Oh." Derek glances toward the school, not sure what he should do. Stilinski leans over, fingers curling in the grass. Derek listens to his harsh gasps and drops down next to him, body pulsing with nervousness. "Um." He reaches out tentatively, putting a hand between Stilinski's shoulder blades. Stilinski's breath hitches but he doesn't move, eyes squeezed shut as he struggles for air. Derek watches his face anxiously, glancing over his shoulder at the school every so often. Stiles' face is pale, his cheeks splotched red, but eventually he gets his breath back, breathing slow.

"I'm sorry," Derek tells him, when he seems to have gotten himself back under control. He lets his hand drop to his side, fingers tingling at the loss of Stilinski's warmth. "About your mom."

"Me too," Stilinski mutters. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a deep breath. "I didn't mean to shout at you. I know you're just trying to do your stupid head boy thing. I just - I don't want to be here."

"Have you tried talking to your dad?" Derek asks uncomfortably.

"He won't listen to me," Stilinski mutters. "He thinks he's doing me this huge favor by sending me here. I don't - I keep disappointing him and I hate it."

"Sorry," Derek says again, not knowing what else to say.

"It's not your problem," Stilinski retorts, getting to his feet. "Thanks for your concern."

"Stilinski," Derek says, scrambling after him. "I - maybe we got off on the wrong foot, but if there's anything I can do, I - I'll try to help."

"Stiles," Stilinski says, and Derek blinks.

"What?"

"You can call me Stiles."

"Oh." Derek blinks again, looking around suspiciously before he says, "Then call me Derek."

Stiles looks over his shoulder at him. He doesn't say anything, but there's a faint smile on his lips and Derek - Derek smiles back.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The final garden verse! :( Takes place after the events of S03E12.[What is garden verse?](http://grimm-times.tumblr.com/post/54652889920/what-is-garden-verse)**

Stiles dreams of death. Not the time in that vast white room, or the flashback to the woods, but the time spent in darkness before the room appeared. He doesn't remembered what happened there, doesn't know if Allison or Scott had felt it too, but the hazy memories are enough to jerk him out of sleep with a gasp, sweat gathering in the arch of his spine.   
  
The light in his room is bright - sometime in the mid afternoon, he thinks blearily - and when he turns his head to find his phone, Derek's sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him with his brow furrowed.   
  
"Oh, hey," Stiles says, lips curving with pleasure. He hasn't seen Derek in four days, not since the night at the hospital. Scott told him about the fight with Deucalion and the Darach and assured him Derek was okay. Stiles had missed him, contemplated calling him, but the distance had been good, probably; he needed some time to himself.   
  
Derek smiles faintly, but his eyes are distracted. He's wearing his dad's leather jacket and Stiles doesn't know why but it makes him uneasy, a uncertain weight settling into his stomach. "You were dreaming," Derek tells him. "Your dad said you've been sleeping a lot."   
  
"Catching up," Stiles says and then blinks. "You talked to my dad?"   
  
"Felt I should," Derek says, "since he knows now."   
  
"Oh," Stiles says, relaxing a little. "Not about us."   
  
Derek shakes his head. "He looked a little suspicious when I said I came to see you, though."   
  
Stiles waves a hand. "He's a cop; that's his job. You'll get used to it."   
  
Derek nods, his mouth tightening, and Stiles feels the weight in his stomach grow heavier. He reaches out, slipping his hand into Derek's, and tries not to be relieved when Derek doesn't pull away.   
  
"Are you doing okay?" Stiles asks him. "I heard - Scott says you're not an alpha any more."   
  
"That's right."   
  
"And?" Derek tilts his head questioningly and Stiles presses, "How do you feel about that?"   
  
Derek's pale eyes flicker to the window. "Relieved," he replies eventually.   
  
"Like there's no target on your back?"   
  
Derek nods.   
  
"So...why don't you look happy?" Stiles asks slowly.   
  
Derek turns his face from the window, eyes dropping to stare at their hands. "I'm leaving," he says, mouth turning down at the corners.   
  
For a moment, all Stiles can do is sit there, heart rate beginning to pick up. Finally he says, "No, you're not."   
  
"Stiles - "   
  
"No!" Derek blinks at the vehemence in Stiles' voice and Stiles continues angrily, "You're not allowed to do that. I told you that I - " he cuts himself off, hurt and unable to say the words again.   
  
Derek closes his eyes for a moment. "I told you we needed to talk."   
  
"And you were planning this?" Stiles demands. "You let me stand there and - "   
  
"No," Derek says softly. "Of course I didn't. But with everything that's happened - I have to get out. My pack has died here twice and I have to keep what's left of it safe."   
  
"And where does that leave me?" Stiles asks bitterly. He know he sounds like a child, bites back an _it's not fair,_ because that would sound even more pathetic, but it's _not_ fair, it's not. He loves Derek and he knows Derek loves him and it's just - it's not right.   
  
Derek doesn't answer him, but his hand grips Stiles' tighter. Stiles wants to pull away, wants to punch him, wants to press his face into the curve of Derek's neck and whisper _stay, stay,_ until Derek bends and he can keep him forever. He doesn't do any of that. He watches Derek's thumb sweep over his and asks, "Are you ever coming back?"   
  
"I don't know," Derek says quietly.   
  
Stiles' throat tightens. "So are we done?"   
  
He watches how Derek's lips thin, how the muscles in his jaw tighten. "I'm not going to ask you to wait for me," Derek says through clenched teeth. "That's not fair to you."   
  
_And leaving me here is?_ Stiles bites back the selfish words and mumbles instead, "I don't want you to go."   
  
Derek shifts suddenly, pulling Stiles into a tight embrace. Stiles can feel the pounding of Derek's heart against his own, hammering furiously in his chest and he sighs, curling his fingers in the soft hair at the base of Derek's neck. He feels Derek exhale against him, ribs shaking. "I don't want to go," Derek murmurs into his neck. "I want to stay here with you."   
  
"Then please," Stiles mumbles, closing his eyes against the sudden burn of tears. "Please don't."   
  
"I have to," Derek says thickly. He turns into Stiles, pressing his nose to his check, breathing hot and damp against his skin. "I have to reset, clear my mind of all this shit. I need to be somewhere where I can look at things and people and not be reminded of what I've lost."   
  
Stiles swallows, tears slipping down the curve of his nose despite how tightly he has his eyes clasped shut. "So," he says shakily, "call it a vacation. You'll come home when your vacation's over, right?"   
  
"I will," Derek breathes. "I will, I promise, but I don't know how long - "   
  
"Doesn't matter," Stiles whispers. "I'll be here."   
  
Derek exhales again, a huge, shuddery breath, and pulls away from him, his brow furrowed. "Cora's waiting in the car," he says slowly. "I need to get going."   
  
"Okay," Stiles says, voice sticking in his throat. "I'll see you out."   
  
Derek waits for him to pull on a t-shirt and then they head downstairs. Stiles' father sits at the dining room table, reports spread out in front of him. He looks up when the come through, frowns when he sees Stiles' tear-stained face, but nods when Derek says, "Sheriff."   
  
Stiles follows Derek out onto the porch, misery building inside him with every step. Derek's stupid new car is parked out on the street; he can see Cora sitting in the passenger's seat, head turned to stare at the house across the street. He's opening his mouth to say, "I guess this is goodbye," when Derek crowds up against him, pushing him back against the door, pressing their mouths together with a desperate hunger. Stiles clutches at the folds of his jacket as Derek pulls back, pressing his forehead to Stiles' cheek. "I love you," he mumbles, and Stiles doesn't care that any of his neighbors could see that. He doesn't care that Cora's turned her head and is pretending to puke. He doesn't care that when Derek finally lets him go and drives off, his dad taps on the window screen and says, "You and Hale, huh?"   
  
A week later, Stiles gets a postcard in the mail. It's from Saint Croix, the front an image of a sandy beach, white sand and cerulean water, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at the thought of Derek lounging in the sun.   
  
The back says  _wish you were here. derek._


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Domestic!Sterek. 1 of 2. This one's for[Spag](spaggel.tumblr.com), who asked for moving day!Sterek. I just moved, so I am well acquainted with these feelings right now.**
> 
> Rating: General  
> Applicable Tags: Derek POV, Domestic AU

"Do you have mixing bowls?" Stiles asks, his voice muffled; he's kneeling on the floor, the upper half of his body inside one of the kitchen cabinets.

"A shitty set from Goodwill," Derek replies, crouching down to peer into the cabinet. He eyes the way Stiles' t-shirt rucks up and reveals a line of skin appreciatively. 

"Well, these were my mom's," Stiles says, sitting back on his heels with a set of baby-blue ceramic mixing bowls in his arms.

"We'll keep those," Derek tells him. Stiles grins. Derek takes the bowls and sets them on the floor behind them. He leans forward to brush his lips against Stiles' cheek but gets distracted. "Is that a cake decorating kit?"

"A cruel prank," Stiles says promptly. "Those showed up when Scott was going through his career identity crisis." Derek groans; he does _not_ miss those couple of months. "And he thought he'd maybe be a chef. That kit showed up and no one will admit to having brought it. My money's on Erica, though."

"She does have a sweet tooth," Derek agrees, looping an arm around Stiles' waist and pressing their sides together. "We almost done with the kitchen?"

Stiles looks up speculatively. "Gotta do the dishes," he says, not looking too excited. Derek hums.

"I've got a set of china in storage," he offers. "Save you the trouble."

"My knight in shining armor," Stiles agrees. "You think that's a good idea with these hooligans, though? Or me, for that matter? You know my record with breakable objects."

"Fair point," Derek says thoughtfully. 

Stiles slumps against him. "Well, tomorrow, maybe. I'm pooped."

"I've got steaks marinating at my place," Derek says, and Stiles groans appreciatively. 

"Aw, babycakes, you just earned yourself a lap dance."

"Pass," Derek says, and Stiles makes an indignant noise. 

"You can't just turn down a lap dance!" he argues. 

"Last time you tried to give me a lap dance, you knocked over a lamp and nearly electrocuted Isaac's cat," Derek points out. 

"Okay," Stiles says. "One, I was _extremely_ drunk and again, fragile items and me equals bad combo. Two, General Sherman needs to use his kitty senses to know when sexy times are about to start because I really am sick of looking up to find him watching us bumpin' uglies."

"I take it back," Derek says.

"What?"

"I can't live with anyone who calls sex 'bumpin' uglies.'"

"Shut up," Stiles says, pressing his nose into Derek's cheek. "You love me."

Derek sighs a long-suffering sigh. "Yeah, I do."

-

Moving day comes and the first hitch occurs fifteen minutes in, when the sheriff throws out his back trying to lift a box that's clearly labeled _werewolves only_ and Stiles spends ten minutes bitching to anyone close enough to listen (and with werewolf hearing, that's every werewolf in a one-block radius) that _someone_ put that box in the wrong pile and now his dad's going to have to go on disability and his heart's going to give out because he's not going to get enough exercise and it's some _stupid_ werewolf's fault. The sheriff rolls his eyes and gets Melissa to drive him to the hospital. They both look quite relieved to get out of there. Derek watches them go wistfully. 

The day just gets worse. There are stubbed toes and jammed fingers and a lot of swearing. Stiles gets even more irritated because he wears out faster than the werewolves and has to take twice as many breaks and he snarls at anyone who tries to make him feel better. Derek doesn't say anything because  _everyone_ knows that moving is hell, but even he's a little hurt when Stiles snaps at him at lunch and all Derek had done was bring him a turkey club from the deli down the road. Stiles says he doesn't want to be  _coddled_ and Derek goes away without a word. They spend the last night in Scott and Stiles' apartment because the mattress is one of the last things to go, and Stiles stays on his side, back to Derek. Derek stares at the stiff line of his spine and doesn't know what to do.

When they get up the next morning, Stiles is quiet and pale. He doesn't really talk all day - not to Derek, not to anyone. Derek lets him be - sometimes he just needs time to himself, and the whole moving thing is stressful. Something feels off, though, when they're finally alone later, and Derek asks Stiles if he wants Chinese for dinner and Stiles just shrugs and says, "Whatever you want." Derek orders all of his favorites and they eat on the floor because the couch is hidden behind a wall of boxes. Stiles eats without enthusiasm, not meeting Derek's eyes. Derek can feel the tension building in the room and he winces, fucking _winces_ when Stiles drops his carton of chicken lo mien on the coffee table and spurts, "Are we doing the right thing?"

Derek looks at the table, splattered with oil from the noodles, and at Stiles' face, pale and unhappy. "What do you mean?" he asks carefully. 

"I just - " Stiles bites down on his lip _hard_ \- Derek smells the blood when he breaks the skin. He wants to reach over and take hold of Stiles' hand but he's not sure that's the right thing to do right now. "What if moving in together was the wrong idea? What if it turns out we hate each other and everything gets all fucked up?"

Derek sighs softly. "You waited until _after_ we signed the lease to bring this up?" He's trying to lighten the mood but Stiles doesn't smile. He sighs again and does reach over the table now, curling his fingers around Stiles'. Stiles clutches at his hand like a lifeline. "We've been dating for three years. We spent so much time at each other's apartments that we were basically living together already. Can you remember the last time we slept apart?"

Stiles bites his lip again. "Probably finals last year," he says quietly. "When I was freaking out about not having enough time for anything."

"That was six months ago," Derek reminds him. 

"Yeah," Stiles says. He looks at their hands. "Do you regret this?"

"No," Derek says without hesitation. "Nothing's going to change, Stiles. We're still going to fight about stupid things and have sex against walls and I'm going to love you tomorrow morning and six months from now and I'll still love you the day I die."

"You shouldn't make promises like that," Stiles mutters.

"Probably not," Derek agrees, but he doesn't take it back because it's true; Stiles is it for him. He doesn't need Stiles to believe it because he knows it's real. 

"What if I totally let myself go and gain like two hundred pounds?" Stiles asks. He still sounds unhappy, but Derek can smell his scent changing, relief filtering through him. 

"I'll still love you," Derek tells him, and Stiles smiles faintly.

"What if I get stomach problems and fart all the time? What if I break my back somehow - you know me, it's totally possible - and you have to carry me everywhere? What if - " Stiles narrows his eyes, calculating. "What if I go to a cosmetic surgeon and get all my moles removed?"

"Line crossed," Derek declares. "I can't love you without your moles, sorry."

Stiles grins, completely relaxed now. "You are stupid and awesome and I love you."

"Good," Derek replies, leaning across the table to kiss him. "Clean up your fucking mess."

"Orrrrrrr," Stiles says, curling his fingers into Derek's collar. "We could have some really great welcome-to-our-new-apartment sex."

Derek narrows his eyes. "I don't know about that. How about some we-just-survived-our-first-emotional-breakdown-in-the-new-apartment sex?"

"Mmmm," Stiles says thoughtfully. "Yeah, all right. Lead the way, puppy."


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Domestic!Sterek. 2 of 2. This one's for[Becca](mydearsourwolf.tumblr.com), who requested sleepy Stiles.**  
> 
> Rating: Teen  
> Applicable Tags: Derek POV, Domestic AU

When Derek gets out of the car, it's already starting to snow. It's unusual for Beacon Hills to get snow of any kind - he can think of maybe three times in the past ten years - but this snow is wet and heavy, quickly blanketing the brown grass. If it keeps it up, there could be a foot by morning. Derek's mouth quirks up at the corners. He wonders what Stiles will have to say about it.

Stiles has nothing to say, as it turns out; when Derek steps into the apartment he finds Stiles fast asleep on the floor, wedged between the couch and the coffee table, which is covered in open textbooks. He's four weeks into his final semester of his senior year. Derek doesn't wake him; he's never seen anyone work as hard as Stiles does. He deserves a little nap.

Derek moves with all the quiet grace of a wolf, silently pulling a blanket off the back of the couch and draping it over Stiles' slumped shoulders. He pauses there for a long moment, matching his breathing to Stiles', inhaling the soft, comforting smell of him.

Derek leaves Stiles to sleep, retreating to the kitchen to start dinner. There's pasta boiling on the stove and garlic bread toasting in the oven when he hears Stiles pad into the kitchen. Derek doesn't turn from the stove, just settles his weight more evenly so when Stiles drapes himself across his back he can support him easily. He smells good, like sleep and content, and Derek turns his head so he press his nose into Stiles' cheek. 

Stiles sighs softly, hands clasped warm over Derek's heart. "Hey, puppy," he says sleepily, turning his cheek into Derek's touch. "When'd you get home?"

"Half hour ago, maybe," Derek replies, folding his hands over Stiles'. "It's snowing."

"Is it?" Stiles pulls away from him and wanders over to the sliding glass door. He grins lazily. "Maybe I won't have classes tomorrow."

"That'd be nice," Derek says, watching him come back around the counter, hopping up to sit next to the stove. "I could take a sick day."

Stiles smiles again, spreading his knees apart so Derek can come over and lean against him, arms around his narrow waist. Stiles slides his hands into Derek's hair, fingers gently scraping at his scalp, and Derek closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to Stiles' chest. "That'd be nice," Stiles says softly. "A lazy snow day." He bends his head, placing a gentle kiss to the top of Derek's head. "Hey, our next apartment should have a fireplace in it. I've always wanted to have sex on a rug in front of a fire. Especially when it's snowing."

"You want to move already?" Derek grumbles. "We could just take a vacation. I'm sure there are cabins you can rent specifically with that setup."

"You want to have sex on a rug someone else has had sex on?" Stiles teases. One of his hands slips down the neck of Derek's t-shirt, resting hot against his tattoo. Derek likes the way Stiles' fingers tense and relax against his skin, like a cat kneading a blanket. "I know you and your nose."

"Maybe I'll build you a house with a fireplace, then," Derek mumbles. Stiles stills and Derek lifts his head, worried he's said the wrong thing. He finds Stiles biting his lip, the tips of his ears gone pink. 

"You want to build me a house?" he asks, very softly, and Derek blinks. Like it wasn't obvious how much he loves Stiles?

"Yes," Derek says simply. He's not sure if it's a declaration or what, but it does something to Stiles, makes his heart pound like crazy.

"No one's ever wanted to build me a house before," Stiles says, his eyes suspiciously glassy. He leans forward and plants a kiss on Derek's lips, so gentle and tender that it makes Derek's heart hurt. "You are stupidly sweet sometimes," he mumbles against Derek's mouth. Derek doesn't say anything, just kisses him back languidly. Maybe he is stupidly sweet, but it's Stiles' fault. He doesn't think the boy understands just what he does to Derek, how fast he makes his heart beat every time he smiles, how his skin burns when they touch, how his blood rushes when he does even stupid things, like burns the toast when he's making them breakfast in bed, or when he sends Derek texts at work that just say things like _look i made a dick 8==D_. He wants years of Stiles, a lifetime of Stiles, an eternity of Stiles. 

The timer for the pasta goes off and Derek pulls away reluctantly, missing the heat of Stiles' body. He listens to Stiles hop off the counter and grab plates and cups. They move around each other wordlessly, seamlessly, like they can read each other's minds, and it's only half because Derek can read Stiles' muscle language and predict his next move. The other half may be due to psychic abilities; he doesn't know. 

They crash on the couch with their food. Stiles shuts off the lights and opens the blinds so they can see the snow fall while they watch television. When they're done eating they find places on the coffee table amongst Stiles' schoolwork for their dishes and settle into each other. Derek lays along the couch with his back against the armrest and Stiles leans against his chest, head tucked under his chin. Derek noses at the skin behind his ear, ridiculously happy. "Love you," he murmurs, relaxing into the sound of Stiles' steady heartbeat.

"You think I don't know that, y'big goon?" Stiles asks. He sounds sleepy, ready to dip back into slumber. His hands stroke along Derek's forearms, the repetitive motion making Derek's eyelids droop. "I love you too, puppy."


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a fic based on those [rave pics](http://colethewolf.tumblr.com/post/61174130437/teen-wolf-behind-the-scenes-x-x-x-x-x-x) going around. Derek's return to Beacon Hills brings him a surprise.
> 
> Rating: Teen  
> Applicable Tags: Derek POV, rave, inappropriate lusting after teenage bods

Derek could hear the music before he even got out of the car, deep bass beat thrumming in his bones. He scowled up at the huge windows of his loft, where he could see lights flashing and the shadows of a lot of bodies moving around. He hadn't expected to be irritated this soon upon his return to Beacon Hills; he'd hoped for at least a _day_ of peace before plunging back into the thick of things. Cora was going to piss herself laughing when he told her and tell him, mock-seriously, that his perpetual anger was a symptom of living in Beacon Hills, so get used to it, big bro.

Leaving town had been _good_ for Derek. He and Cora traveled all over the southwest before landing in Arizona and it had felt good to be normal, to do stupid tourist shit like visit the Four Corners and take a picture straddling the dividing lines. They'd gone to Vegas and the Grand Canyon and run with a pack outside of Santa Fe during the full moon. He'd finally had time to get to know his sister as the young woman she'd grown into, not the eleven-year-old girl he'd last seen just before the fire, who still thought boys were gross. She'd somehow ended up living with a pack in Flagstaff, so it was there they headed after their road trip wound down, and they'd been welcomed with open arms. It'd been a relief, really, even more than the road trip had been, because he hadn't lived a normal pack life since before the fire and it felt good to get his head back in that groove. 

It took two weeks before he finally felt strong enough, put together enough to head back to Beacon Hills. Cora couldn't understand why he'd left, but there were still things to do, loose ends to tie. Peter, for one - who knew what hell he might be raising - and Scott might need help. Derek remembered the transition to alpha; it hadn't been easy coming into all that power. He'd handled it completely wrong, and he didn't want Scott to make the same mistakes. (And he wouldn't have admitted this to anyone, but he kind of missed them. Cora was family but still kind of a stranger; at this point, he knew the kids in Beacon Hills better than he knew her. He missed all of them, even the humans, even the Argent girl and the irritating banshee. Even Stiles, and Stiles was - a whole other problem.)

Derek climbed the stairs to the loft, irritation building with every step. He'd given Scott the keys to the place because he'd never intended to leave for good - fuck, he'd only been gone a month and a half. Had the stupid kid _moved in?_

The door to the loft was open and there were teenagers lounging in the hall, drinking from plastic cups. He ignored the way they all stared at him as he stomped past, biting down on the sudden anxiety rippling through his bones. He'd been popular back in high school, for a time, but he'd withdrawn from all of that after he killed Paige, became a sort of social recluse. Laura had always picked on him for it, teasing him about how much of a hermit he'd become. She probably wouldn't have laughed if she'd seen what he'd become later, living in the shell of their house, then an abandoned train car. The bottom line is that he stopped liking people a long time ago and the attention he's getting now is unwanted. 

"Who is _that?"_ someone whispered behind him. "He's fucking hot."

Derek was glad the light was dim, because he was definitely flushing and that was stupid, getting so unsettled by a bunch of teenagers. He ducked through the loft door, relieved, though the feeling melted away after a second, quickly replaced by indignation. They were having a rave. They were having a fucking _rave_ in his apartment; there was a DJ set up under the window and black lights hanging from the ceiling. There were at least thirty kids dancing around in front of him in various states of undress and intoxication, all painted with neon paint, which burned bright under the black lights. The whole loft reeked of alcohol and sweat and paint and teenage hormones, making Derek's nose burn. It was going to take _weeks_ to get that smell out.

Derek growled under his breath. He needed to find Scott. He needed to get these fucking teenagers out of his home because he'd just driven fifteen fucking hours and he wanted to sleep. He couldn't even _see_ his bed. He desperately hoped that there weren't teenagers having sex on it. 

He caught sight of Isaac out in the middle of the floor, grinding against the Argent girl. Derek snorted to himself, wondering what Scott thought of all of that, then deciding he didn't care. He scanned the crowd for Scott, but some of the kids were wearing masks, and all their scents mingled infuriatingly. 

"Derek!"

Derek jerked his head to the left in time to see Stiles stumbling toward him, wearing a huge grin under a face painted like a skeleton. Derek bit back a smile of his own; Stiles didn't need to know how pleased Derek was to see him, or how much he'd thought about him while he was gone. He might have a soft spot for the stupid kid, but that didn't _mean_ anything, no matter how many times he'd jerked off to the thought of him. 

(Because this was another thing Derek would never admit to anyone; that he kind of had a thing for the sheriff's son. He couldn't even understand why; the kid was loud and irritating and so very, very illegal, but there was something about him that Derek could never shake from his head. He'd come from the fantasy of those soft lips on his cock more times than he cared to admit. For all he knew, though, Stiles never gave him a single thought, which was why he was determined to never say a thing.)

Stiles patted him on the arm, looking pleased. "You're back!" he slurred. "Just in time, man!" 

"What the hell is this?" Derek snapped, gesturing at the party. "Was this your idea?"

"Haha, no," Stiles grinned, leaning in toward him so he could be heard over the music. "Lydia. She loves party planning."

Derek couldn't help but breath in his scent, like cotton and thunderstorms and sweat and - Derek wrinkled his nose, a twinge of jealousy curling in his stomach - like that boy one of the twins had been interested in. Danny something. He tried not to let it show in his voice. "You do realize this is my home, don't you?"

"Mmhmm." Stiles nodded. His scent changed suddenly, subtly shifting in a way Derek did not want to analyze. "We missed you." 

Derek swallowed. He'd just noticed that Stiles was shirtless. Derek had thought he was wearing a shirt; his torso was painted like a skeleton's, long lines of neon ribs painted over his own, but a flash of light from a strobe had shown him soft skin and flat nipples and his shoulders are so much broader than Derek ever realized and - fuck, that was a dangerous road. He was staring and Stiles was starting to smell like arousal and Derek wasn't prepared - he wasn't _ready_ for that. 

"You want to dance?" Stiles asked him, tone casually, but Derek could smell his want, thrumming through the air, curling around him like a shroud. He desperately wanted to give in, to taste that sweet flesh, to lick the sweat off him where it gathered in the hollows of his neck. 

"No," he said instead, more of a growl than anything. "Where's Scott? I want these drunken idiots out of here _now."_

"You're such an old man," Stiles complained. "C'mon, come dance. It's Halloween; let your hair down."

Derek choked in outrage. "I don't - " But Stiles curled his long fingers around Derek's wrist and tugged him forward, pulling him amongst the writhing bodies on the floor. Derek thought he spotted Lydia and cast her a pleading look, but she just raised a perfect eyebrow and whirled away. 

The way Stiles danced was sinful. It should be illegal the way he could move his entire body so sinuously, utterly graceful in a way he wasn't normally. Derek was so fucked. He thought, briefly, about escaping and calling the cops, telling them that a bunch of teenagers had broken into his apartment and started partying, but that would mean seeing the sheriff, and Derek couldn't do that, not when he had a hard-on for his son. He could feel sweat breaking out on his neck and down his spine, the smell of Stiles' arousal so thick he could _taste_ it. Someone in the crowd passed Stiles a bottle of cheap tequila and he drank it straight without breaking his rhythm, a few drops escaping the corner of his mouth, sneaking lazily down his chin. Derek was giving in; he was leaning in to lick him clean - and Stiles looked like he was waiting for it, eyes half shut, chin tilted back - when Scott barged in. Derek didn't know whether to be angry or grateful and settled somewhere in-between while Stiles looked disappointed. 

"Hey!" Scott said cheerfully. "Welcome home!" 

Derek raised an eyebrow at him, casting a pointed look around the crowded loft. Scott, at least, had the sense to look guilty. "Oh, um, you don't mind, do you?" 

Derek didn't dignify that with a response. Scott winced. "Right. Sorry - we just - we didn't know when you were coming back and we just - we needed a little bit of fun, and…" He trailed away at the way Derek still wasn't talking, his shoulders slumping. "I'll tell the DJ to shut it down."

"You're the worst," Stiles said from behind him. Derek twisted to see him still dancing, his eyes half closed. His hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and Derek had to curl his fingernails into his palm to keep himself from reaching out to brush it aside. Fuck, it had never been this _bad_ before. 

The music stopped a few seconds later, eliciting a cry of protest from the crowd, but people started clearing out when they realized it wasn't going to start again. Within moments it was just Derek and Scott and Stiles. Isaac slipped by with a quiet wave, his other hand wrapped around Allison's. Scott watched them go, but he didn't seem upset, he seemed - Derek tried not to breathe in too deeply when he realized that Scott smelled like Allison _and_ Isaac. Jesus Christ, he'd only been gone a month and a half - what the hell had happened? 

Scott shifted guiltily. "Well," he said, "I guess we should get going - "

Derek shook his head, sighing. "No. You get to clean while I try to sober him up." He jerked a thumb at Stiles, who blinked blearily. 

"Hey," he protested. "I'm not drunk."

"You're swaying where you stand," Derek pointed out. 

"Dancing," Stiles mumbled. "I only had four - five - six? Six. Six shots of tequila." 

"Trash bags in the kitchen," Derek told Scott. "I'm holding you responsible for any damages." He grabbed Stiles' wrist over Scott's noise of protest and tugged him into the bathroom. It was covered in glowing paint, which he bared his teeth at, and turn the shower on full blast before shoving Stiles under it. Stiles howled, spitting water.

"It's _cold!"_  

"Pity," Derek said, trying not to look at the way Stiles' nipples had gone stiff, or the way the paint was running down his chest, following the fit lines of his stomach. 

"You're the worst," Stiles said again, scrubbing at his hair. "I take it back. I didn't miss you at all."

"You said 'we' before," Derek said, leaning against the edge of the shower stall. He was pushing it and he knew it, but it was worth it for the way Stiles turned to look at him, something soft and unfamiliar flaring in his amber eyes. He watched Stiles swipe his tongue over his lips, but turned abruptly before he could do anything he might regret. 

"I did," Stiles said quietly, as Derek pulled a towel from the cupboard. "I missed you."

Derek reached around him and shut off the water. The apartment seemed too quiet suddenly, even though he could hear Scott moving around in the main room, picking up trash. Stiles stood still, dripping water, watching him like he was waiting for something. "I - I missed you too," Derek said roughly, quickly, offering Stiles the towel. Stiles reached out after a moment, his fingers brushing against Derek's wrist in a way that was a little too deliberate to be casual. Derek stepped back, his heart hammering in his chest, and Stiles grinned. 

"Welcome home, Derek." 


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill: "Can I prompt for anything from the boarding school AU verse? I don't mind what; school trip, Stiles sneaking around after hours and Derek finding him, school sports, gimme anything XD"
> 
> Rating: Teen  
> Applicable Tags: Derek POV, teenage!Derek, boarding school AU

Derek can’t concentrate on practice. He can see Stilinski sitting under a tree beyond the bleachers and he’s fucking _smoking_ , right out in broad daylight, like he doesn’t give a fuck who sees him. (He doesn’t - Derek knows from past experience, but it still pisses him off.) McCall trots over to talk to him and Derek watches Stilinski exhale a cloud of smoke, falling back against the tree laughing at something McCall’s just said. Derek wants to punch something. What is _wrong_ with that kid? He’s so fucking casual it’s infuriating. 

Derek doesn’t even realized he’s stopped moving until someone smacks into his back and he jolts forward a few paces. Stilinski sees this and Derek can hear him laughing from where he stands. “Hale!” Finstock bellows from the sidelines. “Get your head into the game!” 

"Yeah, Hale," Whittemore sneers somewhere over his shoulder. "Stop staring at your girlfriend."

Derek turns around and snarls at him, but Whittemore just trots off down the field, laughing scornfully. Derek casts one last baleful look at Stilinski, who waves at him cheerfully, and throws himself back into practice, taking his rage out on his fellow teammates. He slams into Mahealani so hard that he knocks all the wind out of them. Finstock sends them both to the bench, his face purple with rage, and Derek deliberately sits with his back to the tree so he can’t see Stilinski mocking him. He feels hot and unsettled in a way that’s completely unfamiliar. He doesn’t understand why Stilinski gets under his skin so bad, or why Derek lets it happen. He’s used to kids mouthing off to him, used to being disrespected, but with Stilinski it feels like a game, and maybe that’s why it makes him so angry. Derek’s not used to losing. 

When Finstock finally ends practice around sundown, Stilinski is gone and Derek breathes a sigh of relief. His relief is short-lived, however; Stilinski’s leaning against the wall outside the gym building when Derek emerges, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. 

"What the fuck do you think you’re doing?" Derek snaps. 

Stilinski’s eyes flicker over to him and then away, completely unconcerned. “Waiting for Scott,” he shrugs. 

Derek grinds his teeth together. “I meant the cigarette.”

"Oh, this?" Stilinski lifts it, the end glowing red in the semi gloom of the evening. "Smoking. That’s what you do with them." 

"Put it out," Derek snarls. 

"Make me," Stilinski retorts, bringing the cigarette to his mouth and taking a deep pull.

Derek steps in closer, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Put it out,” he says again, “or I’ll report you.” 

Stilinski laughs, smoke rolling between his lips. “You sure love pushing people around, don’t you? You better be careful or that ego’s going to start leaking from your ears.”

Derek grabs him by the collar. “Put it out,” he says for the last time, “or I’ll _make_ you.” 

Stilinski grins, takes another draw, and breathes smoke into Derek’s face. 

For a moment, time stops. Derek’s ten again, coughing in a smoke-filled room as he searches for a way out, the roar of flames deafening in his ears. The air is hot, thick and heavy and hard to breathe, and he’s crying, lost and frightened. Somewhere in the distance, he hears Stilinski laugh and Derek’s vision goes red. He’s moving before he realizes it, clenched fist slamming into Stilinski’s face. Not even Stilinski’s startled intake of air makes him stop; Derek punches him again and again, panting, the sound of his heartbeat drowning out any other noise. 

There are hands on him, pulling him back, and it’s like surfacing from a dream. Finstock’s in his face suddenly, shouting about detention, but Derek can only blink at him, open-mouthed. He looks down at Stilinski, who looks bewildered, his nose dripping blood. Derek makes eye contact with Stilinski and the boy’s face darkens, something like loathing making his amber eyes go black. Somewhere over his shoulder, Whittemore laughs again and Derek feels hatred settle into his stomach, dense and eternal. 


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "College AU! where Derek and Stiles have an awkward hallway meeting after a one night stand."
> 
> Rating: Teen  
> Applicable Tags: Stiles POV, College AU, One-night Stand

"Dude," Stiles sighs, tucking his phone against his shoulder as he loads his clothes into the washing machine. "You should have _seen_ this guy.”

"I _did_ see him,” Scott replies, sounding a little cross. “You went to the party with me, remember? I got to see you get shitfaced and then hang all over that guy before abandoning me to disappear with him.”

"Baby, don’t be like that," Stiles coos. "It happens to the best of us. Besides, I saw you eyeballing Allison all night. You can’t tell me you didn’t get any."

"Maybe," Scott says grudgingly. "At least I know her name, though. How hungover are you?"

"Drunk me is very good at remembering to drink water," Stiles says haughtily, fumbling to get the cap off his laundry detergent without dropping his phone. "I am eternally grateful to Drunk Stiles."

"Right," Scott laughs. "Well, I gotta go. Allison’s taking a shower and then we’re going to go get breakfast."

"It’s after noon," Stiles points out. 

"There’s no deadline on breakfast," Scott tells him solemnly and Stiles grins.

"That’s my boy! I’ll talk to you later." 

"Later," Scott says cheerfully, and Stiles slips his phone into his pocket before hopping up on top of the washing machine. He’s lived in the dorms long enough to know it’s a bad idea to leave his machine unattended; the last time he tried, someone took his clothes out halfway through the cycle and put their own in. He’d had great fun taking out their sodden clothes and throwing them into a snowbank. 

Now, he stretches out across three machines with Plato’s _Symposium,_ which he’s supposed to be reading for his philosophy class. It’s hard, though; he keeps getting distracted by memories of last night and the guy he’d gone home with. _Fuck_ , that guy was hot, and he’d been fucking _phenomenal_ in bed. Stiles’ face flushes at the memory, of the fucking _noises_ he’d made as the guy pounded into him. He didn’t usually get that vocal, but the noisier he got, the more it seemed to turn the dude on, and then when they’d flipped - Stiles gives in to a whole body shudder. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone enjoy themselves that much. The dude had come so hard he’d gotten come on his own chin.

Too bad he’d been gone when Stiles woke up this morning, because he definitely would have been up for a couple more rounds. And breakfast. Breakfast would have been nice. He hadn’t even left his phone number. Stiles sighs softly, covering his face with his book. So maybe there’s a reason why he doesn’t really do one-night stands. Maybe he doesn’t like feeling so empty and alone when the morning rolls around. 

Maybe the guy had woken up and found him a lot uglier than he remembered. It wouldn’t be the first time. Bummer. Stiles isn’t even sure if he’s a student and it isn’t like he remembers the dude’s name to look him up in the directory. Had the guy even _told_ him his name? Fuck. 

"Typical," Stiles mutters. "You’re a winner, Stilinski." 

He hears someone come into the laundry room but doesn’t move until they cough and he draws his legs in so they can get to the free washing machine. “Sorry, sorry.” Stiles squints from under his book and freezes because there’s the dude right there, a grim look on his face as he loads a pile of laundry into the machine. “Uh,” Stiles says, pulling the book off his face. “Hi.”

The dude glances over at him and stops moving, the tips of his ears going pink. It’s kind of adorable, Stiles thinks, sitting up slowly. “Hi,” the guys says, and they regard each other for a long moment. Stiles isn’t sure what to say. _I had a great time putting my dick in your ass and vice versa_ doesn’t sound quite right. _Do you want to do it again_ is closer to what he wants to say, but that’s not right either. He hasn’t had too many one-night stands, and he’s never run into any of them again; he’s not sure what the etiquette is here. He definitely did not expect the dude to be living in his building, although now that he thinks about it, he has a very faint memory of the guy murmuring _you live here too?_ as they made out in the elevator. 

"Sorry for disappearing," the guy says finally, and the flush on his ears has spread to his cheeks. It’s _super_ adorable. “I - I tutor on the weekends and I was late for a session. I meant to leave you my number but I didn’t remember until I left and I forgot your room number and - “

"Dude," Stiles says, grinning. "Don’t worry about it."

He tries to make it sound like he wasn’t bothered by it but maybe it makes him sound callous and uncaring because the dude’s face goes kind of shuttered and he looks down at the washing machine with a frown. “Okay,” he says, and there’s a finality to his tone that Stiles doesn’t want to hear. The dude sounds _disappointed_ and Stiles - Stiles isn’t having that.

He leans forward hurriedly and says, “I know leaving our clothes here is asking for someone to mess with them, but do you want to go get coffee or something? There’s a diner over on Commercial Street that’s pretty good.”

The guy looks up at him, expression hopeful, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “They have good pie over there.”

"Yeah they do," Stiles agrees, delighted. He slides off the washing machine, tossing his book in his laundry bag, then pauses. "Okay, this is super embarrassing, but I can’t remember your name."

"Oh, thank god," the dude sighs. "I couldn’t remember yours either. I’m Derek."

"Stiles." 

They grin at each other, first hurdle jumped, and head outside to a spring afternoon where the air is warm and green and fresh with exciting things to come.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I had several wedding-related prompts, so I hit a bunch of birds with one stone.
> 
> Rating: General  
> Applicable Tags: Derek POV, Weddings

They’re halfway through the rehearsal dinner when Stiles excuses himself to use the bathroom and doesn’t come back. It takes Derek a little while to realize this; he’s been caught by Stiles’ terrifyingly sweet grandmother and he’s afraid she might stab him with a knitting needle if he tries to slink off before she’s done telling him about the time she went to Aruba with her bridge group. He sees Scott trying to catch his eye, though, and regretfully tells Grandma Stilinski that he needs to go check on something. 

Scott says, “Stiles is freaking out.”

"You’re his best friend," Derek hisses, smiling blandly when the sheriff catches his eye. 

"And you’re going to be his husband tomorrow!" Scott retorts, jabbing him in the chest with his finger. "Go take care of him!"

"Fine, fine," Derek grumbles. He steps out of the restaurant and pauses there, eyes settling shut to listen for Stiles’ heartbeat. It’s not far away and, to his surprise, it’s beating steadily. He doesn’t sound panicked. Derek goes to find him anyway, because with Stiles is his favorite place to be. 

Stiles is standing out on a balcony, resting his arms on a metal railing. They’re having the dinner at the hotel where they’ll be getting married tomorrow, and this balcony looks out over a garden where the tent for their ceremony is being set up. Stiles shifts when he hears Derek step outside, turning his head just enough so that Derek can see the warmth of his amber eyes. He smiles faintly and Derek can see the tension in his expression, smells the faint sweat and worry building on him.

Derek steps up beside him and Stiles leans into him immediately, curling his arm around Derek’s waist. “Scott said you were freaking out,” Derek murmurs, lifting his arm to Stiles’ shoulder and pressing a kiss to his temple. 

"I was," Stiles sighs. "A little, maybe."

"Why?"

Stiles makes a frustrated gesture in the air. “I just - You know me. I over think things.”

"It’s a big deal," Derek says quietly, turning his eyes to the garden. "But nothing’s really changing."

"I know that," Stiles mumbles, turning his head, tucking it under Derek’s chin. 

"I’ll remind you that _you’re_ the one who proposed to _me,”_ Derek adds, squeezing him a little tighter. 

"I know," Stiles says again. He smells like old sadness, like dry dirt. "I wish my mom could be here. I wish your family could be here. I wish I’d been able to meet them."

Derek breathes out slowly. “They would have loved you,” he tells Stiles. “You and Laura are like twins.”

Stiles makes a dry, sad noise and turns into Derek, pressing chest to chest, wrapping his arms around his neck. “I love you, you know.”

"Figured that out a while ago," Derek replies, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. "Right around that time you got so, amazing drunk - "

"Hey, hey," Stiles says warningly.

" - that you tried climbing through my apartment window - "

"Stairs are _hard_ when you’re drunk.”

" - naked - "

"It was like a hundred degrees out, okay, that’s way too hot for clothes."

" - and then you got stuck halfway through and _cried_ ,” Derek finishes cheerfully.

"I swear to God," Stiles says, "if you tell that story tomorrow, I’ll divorce you and take all your money."

Derek laughs softly, pressing his forehead to Stiles’. “That was the morning I decided to ask you to move in,” he says quietly.

"So you could catch my drunken ass before the neighbors saw me?" Stiles mutters, scratching his fingers through the hair at the base of Derek’s neck. 

"I don’t think you remember," Derek replies. "You were crying and said it hurt being apart. I think you were talking about being stuck in the window," he adds, a bemused tone creeping into his voice, "but I was thinking the same. How I hated waking up without you next to me."

Stiles pulls his head back to look at Derek, his amber eyes gone watery. “Derek Hale,” he says, his voice wavering, “you are the stupidest, sappiest, most adorable man I’ve ever met.”

Derek pretends to pout. “Adorable? I sprout claws that can cut through metal.”

"And you look _so_ cute while you do it,” Stiles retorts, tapping him on the nose. 

Derek snaps at his finger, grinning when Stiles laughs. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go be good hosts.”

Stiles nods and leans in for a slow kiss before slipping out of Derek’s grip. “All right, hubby.”

"If you call me that tomorrow, I’ll tell your grandmother the window story," Derek warns, following Stiles back into the hall. 

Stiles wrinkles his nose, grabbing for Derek’s hand as they head back to the dining room. “Grandma? I wouldn’t; she’s a one-upper. You tell her that story and she’ll start telling you about her days as an ‘exotic dancer.’”

Derek groans, pushing open the door to the restaurant. “Only you would have a family that strange.”

Stiles grins. “Don’t lie. You love it, babe.”

"I love you," Derek corrects, as their guests notice their reappearance. "I love you." 


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: " I'd like to request a slave AU where Stiles owns Derek, please and thank!"
> 
> A little background: this is a mostly undeveloped verse/plot so far, so the details on the  _why_ of things are a little fuzzy, but in this AU, Stiles’ father is a warden/ranger on the edge of a vast forest and they live in a very small town that’s often the landing point for hunters who’ve trapped werewolves in the woods. All you need to know, though, is that ten years before this ficlet, Stiles came to the station to visit his dad and saw them bring in a young Derek, who’d been living in the woods since his family was killed. Stiles could see the misery in his face - Claudia had just passed away, and he feels it aching inside himself every day - and he helps Derek escape.
> 
> Rating: Teen  
> Applicable Tags: Stiles POV, Alternative Universe - Slavery, Feral!Derek  
> WARNING: Themes of slavery

WARNING: Themes of slavery.

"I don’t want to do this," Stiles said loudly.

"I know," his father sighed. "I heard you the first hundred times, but as I keep telling you, this isn’t optional."

Stiles made a face as they pulled into the parking lot of the auction house. “Are you sure? Don’t you think that if something was going to come after me, it would have done it _before_ I turned eighteen?”

His father sighs again. “You know the law, Stiles. You can inherit my land now, and that makes you a target. You need someone who can protect you while I’m gone.” 

"Are you planning on dying anytime soon?" Stiles challenged, clambering out of the SUV after his father. "Where’s your body guard?"

"I can take care of myself," his father retorted, tapping the gun on his belt. 

Stiles made a face like he’d been mortally wounded. “Just because I can’t shoot a gun to save my life - “

"Means you need someone there to save it for you," his father finished swiftly. "Shut your mouth and get inside. Your grandmother left you this money for this reason and if we don’t use it, she’ll come back and haunt the both of us."

Stiles shuddered, pulling open the front door. “All right, fine; you’ve made your point.”

Inside, the auction house was packed with people. He saw a couple of wardens exchange nods with his father, even one or two hunters. They all looked extremely competent, the only other people in the room beside his dad who kept guns at their waists. His father peeled away to talk to a man he dimly thought was the mayor, but spared a nod toward the far wall, saying, “Go look at the weres. See if there’s one that catches your eye.”

Stiles rolled his eyes but headed for the far end of the room, where a thick glass and steel wall kept the weres separated from the humans. He eyed them with distaste; most of them were in a poor state, clearly runaways dredged up from the forests. Some were barely clothed; all were at varying levels of uncleanliness, and all were shackled. Every single one of them wore a collar and he curled his lip in sympathy; they didn’t look comfortable in the slightest. The woman nearest to him had her back turned to the glass and he could see where her skin was being rubbed raw by her leather neckband. He’d thought that weres had super healing abilities, but then, maybe it was hard to heal when you were in constant discomfort. 

Stiles didn’t particularly _want_ to own a werewolf. It wasn’t like owning a cat or a dog - they were _people._ It didn’t seem right and the choice was out of his hands, unfortunately, but he’d do what he could to be a good owner.  

He drifted down the line, sighing softly as he went. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for here, but he wasn’t seeing it. All right, he thought. Focus. Find someone able to protect me. Trouble was, every single one of these weres could do that, what with the supernatural strength and all. He needed to find someone he could get along with, at the very least, if he and the were were going to be stuck in the house for days while Dad went into the forest. 

Movement at the back of the cell caught his eye. There was a male were getting to his feet - which were shackled too, Stiles noticed; he was the only were in the entire cell with his hands  _and_ feet restrained. He was young, probably only a few years older than Stiles, but he was built like a brick wall, broad shoulders and defined muscle. He was extremely handsome, but something about his face was familiar - that dark look on his face struck a chord with Stiles. He stepped closer to the glass, trying to place him.

_You want a cookie?_

Stiles blinked. Holy shit. This was the kid he’d helped escape like ten years ago. Stiles watched the were watch the wolves around him, pale eyes untrusting and clouded with hatred. It was definitely him.

Stiles nodded to himself and turned to find his father. He’d found his were. There was no way he wasn’t getting this one; they had a _history._ Stiles had been the only one in the entire outpost who’d been able to get near him. That had to mean something.

He met his father halfway across the hall. “You find one?”

"Yeah!" Stiles said, tugging him toward the glass. "That big dude in the back, look."

They both turned to look just as another were came too close. Stiles’ were bared his fangs in a furious snarl, his eyes burning deep red. “Oh,” Stiles says.

"No," Dad says. "There is _no way_ you’re getting an alpha.”

"Dad," Stiles said seriously. "He’s that werewolf I helped escape when I was a kid, remember?"

His father frowned at him. “You said you didn’t have anything to do with that.”

"Okay," Stiles replied, squirming. "We know I have a habit of bending the truth." His father snorts. Stiles continues, "But we had a bond, Dad!"

"Bond or not, he’s an alpha," his father retorted. "There’s no way I’m letting you buy him."

"Good thing I don’t need your permission, then," Stiles replied impudently. "I’m eighteen now, remember?"

His father looked like he wanted to smack him, but at that moment an auctioneer stepped up onto a platform and called out, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Lone Oak Auctions. If you folks could all take a step back, we’ll be bringing our first weres out shortly. All of our weres are collared and tagged according to state guidelines, and histories will be provided for those weres that have them. Please be aware that most of our stock comes wild from the woods; we can’t vouch for their suitability as companions.”

"You hear that?" Dad hissed at him. "Wild, Stiles. I want you to pick one that I won’t have to worry about mauling you in your sleep.

Stiles rolled his eyes as the first were was brought on stage - a middle aged female beta who’d been caught in southern Oregon. The bids came fast - she had a history of working in homes, and people wanted a maid, Stiles supposed. He wondered why no one seemed concerned that she’d escaped from her previous owners five times before they willingly gave her up.

The auctioneers knew their business; they sold off the weres faster than Stiles could follow. Very few did not sell - older men seemed unpopular, and there were a few children that were never brought out. His father leaned over and told him that kids got sent to a compound in the south, where they’d learn a trade. Stiles stared at their worried young faces, a guilty roiling in his stomach. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like.

His alpha was brought out near the tail end of the auction, pulled along by four men. He fought their pull, claws on his bare feet digging grooves into the wood floor. As he was finally yanked up onto the podium, snarling and glaring red, the auctioneer said, “We’ve got a rare wild alpha here, folks. He was caught in the forest outside of Eureka and had no tags or collar when we found him. As far as we can figure, he’s never been owned, and he appears to be unable to speak English - at least, we can’t get him to talk. Do I hear a thousand?”

Stiles’ father tried to catch his arm, but Stiles dodged him, shooting his hand up into the air. He was relieved to see that not too many people were interested in his alpha; the fact that he was wild and didn’t speak English seemed to have turned them off of him. Stiles knew better, though. He remembered that hand coming through the bars, taking the cookie with a quiet _thank you_.

He got into a bidding war with one dude while his dad hissed at him to cut it out, but Grandma left him quite a bit of cash and he was hardly hurting when he won the auction at ten thousand.

"I’m going to kill you," his father muttered. "If that alpha doesn’t kill you first."

"You’re such a drama queen," Stiles sighed. "Now I know where I get it from."

His dad didn’t laugh, though. He was completely serious when he said, “I want you to listen to me. This isn’t a joke, Stiles. You’ve just bought a living being capable of ripping you to pieces at the slightest provocation. If he escapes and hurts someone, the blame falls on you. Do you understand that?”

"I do!" Stiles protested. "Give me a chance, Dad. Give _him_  a chance. He’s probably stressed out. He’ll probably be better once he gets settled down.”

His father looked skeptical, but didn’t continue the conversation further. After the auction had wound down, they joined the line of new owners to pay and fill out all the necessary registration paperwork. The man who helped them seemed to know Stiles’ father; he gave him a friendly nod and said, “Afternoon, warden. Which lot’s yours?”

"It’s not mine," Dad sighed. "My son’s bought himself that wild alpha."

"Is that so?" The man gave Stiles a skeptical look. "You sure you want him? He’s no companion. I wouldn’t recommend him for a beginner."

"I’m sure," Stiles replied firmly.

The man shook his head. “Well, we’ve got a thirty day return policy if you find he’s too much. You paying with cash or check?”

After all the paperwork had been signed, Stiles and his father retreated to the car, which they drove around to the back of the building. A tough-looking woman looked over their papers before disappearing into the auction house. She returned leading two men, who had the alpha between them. He looked different than he had inside, his body loose, eyes half open. Stiles frowned.

"Gave him a wolfsbane sedative," the woman explained as the two men pushed the alpha into the back seat. "It’ll wear off in about six hours. Should give you enough time to get him settled in." The alpha snarled at the sound of her voice, but it was a half-hearted, almost sleepy noise. By the time they reached the highway, the alpha seemed to be asleep - or unconscious - slumped against the back window. Stiles kept twisting around in his seat to stare at him until his dad smacked him on the shoulder and said, "Cut that out. You’ll have plenty of time to gawk at him later.

Stiles flushed faintly because the alpha was kind of super handsome, but he wasn’t - he wasn’t _gawking_. He was just curious. Really. 

The alpha was still asleep when they got back to the house, which meant Stiles and his dad had to manhandle him out of the car and into the basement. Stiles protested the fact they were going to lock him up, but he had to concede that it was probably for the best, at least for the first few days. For all his bravado and insistence that he could do this, Stiles was more than a little nervous about the whole thing. It wasn’t like the cage was super terrible, either, he told himself. There was a camp bed he’d slept on a few times himself, and a sink and a toilet. It was nicer than any of the holding cells at the station, anyway. 

They got him slung onto the camp bed and then Stiles fished out the key he’d been given, which would unlock the alpha’s restraints. His heart fluttered nervously when he touched the alpha’s arm, his skin flaring hot under Stiles’ touch.

The alpha shifted slightly, his eyes opening, but it seemed the sedative still held him in its grip, because his eyes flickered shut again after a moment of trying to focus on Stiles. Stiles breathed out and hurried to unlock the restraints so he could back out of the cage. 

"There," his father said, swinging the barred door shut. "He’s one hundred percent your problem now."

"Was that your vote of confidence?" Stiles asked, following him upstairs. He scowled at his dad’s back when he got a snort in response. 

They had an early dinner of beef and vegetable stir fry and settled into the living room afterward to watch tv, but Stiles couldn’t sit still. He kept glancing toward the basement door and finally gave in, getting to his feet. 

"You going to go watch him sleep?" his father asked from where he was sprawled out in his armchair. 

"I just want to check on him," Stiles replied, flushing faintly. He didn’t expect the alpha to be awake - it had only been a couple of hours since the auction - but to Stiles’ surprise, the alpha was standing at the far end of the cage, hands curled around the bars. He swung around when Stiles came down the stairs, dropping into a crouch with a low, warning growl. His eyes were bright and unclouded by the drug; Stiles wondered if it had worn off so fast because he was an alpha.

"Whoa, dude," Stiles said peaceably, raising his hands. "I’m not going to hurt you." This got him nothing but a low, continuous growl he could feel in his bones. He took a careful step closer to the cage and the alpha’s growling increased in volume. He didn’t look human like that, crouched on all fours, face shifted; Stiles could see his teeth had grown long in his mouth, sharpening into fangs. He swallowed nervously; the collar should have kept him from even partially shifting. Was it faulty? 

"Hey," Stiles said, taking another careful step closer. "Do you remember me? We met a long time ago."

The alpha didn’t react, just kept up a steady rumbling. Stiles bit his lip. Okay, maybe this wasn’t going to be so easy. 

"I helped you," he told the alpha. "When we were kids. You got caught and I opened the door so you could escape. Do you remember that?"

The alpha didn’t move. Stiles sighed. All right, that was fine. The dude was probably freaked out of his mind right now. Maybe he needed a few days to adjust. He forced a bright grin onto his face. He’d be fine. They’d be fine.

[they are not fine]


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I'm feeling a little numb and down lately and your writing always cheers me up so could I ask for Derek and Stiles accidental meeting in human!universe? But not a coffee shop or bakery because it's everywhere but maybe a book shop? How does it sounds?"
> 
> Rating: General  
> Applicable Tags: Derek POV, Artist!Derek, Student!Stiles, Alternative Universe - Human

Derek’s lost in his head, comparing varnishes, calculating quantities and costs. He’s got three five by five panels he’s got to get their finishing touches by next Friday so they can get shipped to Austin for that group show, but the store’s out of the brand he likes and he doubts they can get it in in time. He’s not super happy; he’s used some of these other brands before and they don’t work for shit. He growls under his breath. Allison’s the worst studio assistant he’s had in a while; she should have _noticed_ he was almost out.

Someone behind him coughs very politely and he comes out of a cloud of anger and varnish to see a young man with an arm full of canvases waiting to get by him; that’s when Derek realizes that he’s standing in the middle of the aisle, and it’s not like this store is huge. The aisles are barely big enough for two people to stand shoulder to shoulder. 

"Sorry," Derek mutters, stepping back and squeezing his shoulders up against the shelves so the kid can pass with his canvases. 

"No worries," he returns cheerfully, slipping past. Derek watches him go, an odd twisting in his stomach. He hasn’t painted people in a long, long time, but something inside him wants to paint this kid, wants to outline the curve of his pink lips, wants to sketch the long lines of his neck. He stops in front of the brushes and Derek turns to face the varnishes, but he keeps watching the young man, drinks in the way he stands with his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. He’s long-limbed, looks awkward and graceless, but there’s something elegant in his long fingers, something Derek itches to draw. 

 _You need to take a chance every once in a while,_ Laura’s always telling him. _Go for broke. You can’t get any poorer._  

He will take a chance, Derek thinks, drawing in a deep breath. He grabs a bucket of varnish off the shelf and meanders casually over to the kid, who’s picked up a sable brush and is dragging his fingertip over the soft tip. “Need some advice?” Derek asks, totally casual. 

"Huh?" The young man blinks, totally lost in his own world. "Oh, uh. I don’t know. I’ve got a bunch of really nice brushes my mom left me, but they’re getting kind of frayed." He frowns at the display. "My professor’s always going on about quality, but I can’t really tell the difference. Just these outrageous prices." He picks up a $90 brush and winces. "This is like a month’s lunches."

"You don’t need to buy the expensive ones," Derek says dismissively. He’s got a hard hand and goes through brushes weekly; if he bought the expensive ones, he’d be bankrupt in six months. "People can be snobby about brushes, but there are some nice sable brands that aren’t too pricey, and I think synthetic’s fine too, honestly." Sometimes he’ll buy the $5 value packs because he likes the rough texture of the cheap brushes.

"Oh," says the kid, looking pleased when Derek tells him this. "Thanks."

This could be it. This could be the end of the conversation, but Derek doesn’t want to end it. He doesn’t like talking to people, as a rule, but he wants to make an exception, so he makes himself ask, “You’re a student?”

"Yeah," the young man replies, shifting his canvases to his other arm. "Not full time. Just taking some classes at the art institute."

"Who’s your painting professor?"

"Erica," the kid says, making a face. "She’s kind of a hard-ass."

Derek laughs because it’s true, even if it’s mostly for show; the last time they got drunk together, Erica nearly pissed herself laughing about how scared her students were of her. 

The kid eyes him speculatively. “Are you a painter?”

Derek nods, holds out his hand. “Derek Hale.”

The kid doesn’t take his hand. Instead, his eyes go wide and he says, “Derek _Hale?_ Dude, Boyd took us to see your show last month!”

To his chagrin, Derek can feel his cheeks flushing. “What’d you think?”

 _"Dude,"_ the kid says expressively. He sets his canvases down on the floor so he can gesture aggressively. “I’ve never _seen_ work like yours. It’s just like - this _mood_ that totally got to me - in a good way, I mean. Your landscapes feel so - so lonely, so removed from everything. Some of them, it felt like, like, I don’t know. Like something bad was coming, or maybe it was already there, right off the canvas.” He tapped at his chin thoughtfully. “Eldritch,” he says finally. 

"Eldritch," Derek repeats, his cheeks burning. 

"Yeah," the young man nods. "Like otherworldly, a little creepy. I - " He stops talking, his face going bright red. "I mean - I really liked your work. Really really. I didn’t mean to offend you."

"No," Derek says swiftly, shaking his head. "You didn’t. That - that’s exactly what I go for."

"Oh," the young man says and his flush, if anything, seems to deepen. 

Derek watches him lick his lips and searches for something to say. He’s so bad at small talk, but he doesn’t want to stop talking. He wants to know this kid, wants to paint him, wants to know the feel of his skin. But he can’t think of anything to say, so he gives up and says, “Well. I need to go.”

"Oh," the kid says again, his face falling a little. "Thanks for your help."

"No problem," Derek says, and he makes himself move around the kid, but he doesn’t make it to the end of the aisle the kid calls out behind him, "Hey!" 

Derek turns and the kid flushes but says, “Would you be interested in getting coffee?”

Derek’s heart skips a beat, but he manages a faint smile. “I don’t even know your name.”

"Stiles," the kid says quickly. "Stiles Stilinski."

As they join the line for the register and Derek stands behind Stiles as he pays, he sends a text to Laura. 

_I just met someone._

_I’m telling Mom,_ she texts back immediately, and Derek can’t even find it in himself to be pissed because Stiles looks over his shoulder at him and grins and fucking hell, he smiles back.


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More painter!Derek. 
> 
> Rating: General  
> Applicable Tags: Derek POV, artist!Derek, student!Stiles, Alternative Universe - Human

It's been a week since he met Stiles and Derek is nervous. Coffee went well - went _really_ well, actually; he's kind of alarmed by how _easy_ it was to talk to Stiles once they got started. They sat in a little cafe for almost three hours before Allison started sending him a series of increasingly irate texts and he regretfully headed back to the studio. He hasn't seen Stiles since, but they've been texting, and he's coming to the studio in less than an hour. Derek can't stop pacing around, moving things around, trying to clean. Allison's getting annoyed. 

"Will you stop?" she snaps, blocking his way so he can't get to his paints and rearrange them for the third time. "God, you're like a teenager."

Derek glowers at her; strong words, considering she's only twenty. "I'd like to remind you that if I fire you, you won't get credit for your internship."

Allison rolls her eyes. "And I'd like to remind you that if you fire me, this place will collapse, since you can never remember when and which bills need to be paid."

Derek narrows his eyes at her. "So this is a stand-off."

She laughs sudden, bright, and heads for the coffeemaker. "Seems that way."

Derek scowls at her back, but he relaxes after that. He likes Allison; she's a good grounding force. When he gets a text from Stiles forty minutes later that says _just got out of class; on my way_ , Allison takes in the look on his face and says, "You know, I think I'm going to head home for the day. You think you'll be okay?"

Derek's not at all sure that he is, but he's grateful she's giving him space, and nods. He watches Allison pack up her bag and put on her coat and then he just stands in the middle of the room, listless. He wants to do something, but he's not sure how much time he has, and so he stands there, arms crossed over his chest, waiting anxiously for Stiles to arrive. At his side, his phone buzzes. He's got a message, but it's from Laura, not Stiles. _Calm down,_ it says, and he scowls at it. He never should have let Laura visit while Allison was here, because now they're thick as thieves. 

 _Stay out of this,_ he texts back. 

 _Don't be rude,_ she responds instantly. He can almost _see_ the glee on her face. _Keep it up and i might make an unannounced visit right in the middle of your date._

 _You wouldn't dare._ She would, he knows, from painful experience. She and Cora are evil. 

_Luckily for you I'm in NY on business, so I'll just say good luck, little bro. You deserve something good. <3_

He makes a face at the heart emoticon and shoves his phone back in his pocket because he's just heard a car pull up in front of the studio. He crams his hands into his pockets, then folds them over his chest, then lets them fall to his sides as Stiles comes through the door, beaming. 

"Hey!" he says cheerfully. "This place is amazing!" 

"Thanks," Derek replies quietly, his nerves betraying him with a shy smile. The studio's a converted barn he rents from an old woman. It's kind of cold in the winter, but after he made his first big sale, he had huge glass windows put in on the end that faces the forest. There's an old paint-stained armchair that he likes to sit in the mornings and drink his coffee while the snow falls. The rest of the space is crowded with canvases and plants and Allison's space over by the only radiator. "Feel free to take a look around," he adds, and Stiles' grin goes wider. 

Derek watches him wander around the studio, feeling nervous. He isn't fond of people entering his space; Erica's always begging him to let her bring students over for a tour, but he's yet to say yes. He's especially nervous about Stiles being there; he wants everything to be _right_. 

"Is this your dog?" Stiles asks suddenly, from over by Allison's spot. Derek had forgotten about Rosie, who was ten and usually spent most of the day sleeping in front of the radiator. 

"Uh, yeah," he says, walking over. "Rosie. I've had her since I was in high school." Rosie, an Australian Shepherd, opens one blue eye at the sound of her name and wags her tail. 

"I love dogs," Stiles says conversationally, his hands crammed into his pockets. He gives Derek a bright smile. "This place is great - is that something you're working on?" He nods over at a canvas by the window, a dark painting of a path through an evergreen forest, the light muted and overcast. 

"Yeah," Derek sighs. "It's supposed to go out to a show in Austin tomorrow, but I can't get the light right." He nods toward the wall, where the other two canvases sit, already packaged and ready to go.

Stiles tilts his head to one side, narrowing his eyes at the painting. "What are you struggling with?"

"Mood's not right," Derek shrugs. "I wanted it to feel threatening, I guess."

"Huh," Stiles says thoughtfully. "Can I make a suggestion?"

Derek smiles faintly. "Be my guest."

Stiles grins and says, "I'd add yellow. That weird yellow-green color the sky gets before big storms, you know? Maybe that'd add the tension you're looking for."

Stiles is right; Derek can see it already; the haze in the air, the yellow-grey cast of the light. His fingers twitch against his palms, aching to get painting. Stiles laughs. "Oh man, I recognize that look," he says. "You want to paint, don't you?"

"I - yes," Derek sighs. "But you came over and - "

"Hey, no worries," Stiles says. "I don't mind just chilling out. I've got some work I can do, if you want to paint."

"Are you sure?" Derek asks uncertainly. 

"Totally," Stiles grins. "That chair over by the window looks pretty comfortable."

"It is," Derek agrees. "You want some coffee? My assistant made a fresh pot before she left."

"Sounds great," Stiles says agreeably. 

Derek makes them cups of coffee - "Sugar, no cream, thanks," Stiles says - and watches Stiles settle in before turning to his canvas. They talk at first, idle chatter that dies away as Derek falls deeper into his creative headspace. He surfaces once in a while to check on Stiles, but he seems content, legs slung across the side of the chair, a sketchpad across his thighs. Derek focuses on his hands for a moment, watches them sketch loosely and boldly. _Paint them_ , he thinks dazedly, before sinking back into the forest. 

When he finally steps away, satisfied, he can hear Stiles talking, voice low, and glances over to see him talking to Rosie, who's wandered away. Derek smiles and heads to the bathroom to get the paint off his knuckles and when he comes back out he heads for the chair, sinking down on the cement floor next to it. Stiles looks down at him with a faint smile. 

"I snuck a peek," he confesses, crossing his arms over the arm of the chair. "It looks terrifying." 

"Glad to hear it," Derek smiles. "Thanks for being patient with me."

"Dude," Stiles says warmly, "I got so much work done. My roommate's awesome, but he's super distracting. Thank _you_ for letting me hang."

"It was nice," Derek tells him. "I - I'd like to do it again."

"Me too," Stiles says, leaning over the arm, his eyes warm in the fading light coming through the window. Derek catches his breath, eyes slipping down to Stiles' full lips. He looks at Stiles' eyes, creased with good cheer and encouragement, and leans forward, dipping in just close enough to breathe against his lips. Stiles is still for a short moment before he presses forward, opening his warm mouth against Derek's. The drag of their lips is enough to send a shudder down Derek's spine. He can't remember how long it's been since he kissed someone but this is a lot better than he remembers it being. Stiles has one hand pressed against Derek's cheek, long fingers cradled against his jaw and he lets it slip down to the side of Derek's neck when he pulls back, soft smile on his face. 

"You got any plans?" Stiles asks him.

"No," Derek tells him, the corners of his mouth quirking up. "Why?"

"We-e-ell," Stiles drawls. "My dorm room's not exactly suited for hosting guests, but if you'd like to go get a drink somewhere, it's on me. Call it a reward for finishing your painting."

"Deal," Derek says and Stiles grins, leans forward to kiss him again, a chaste brush of his lips against the corner of Derek's mouth. 

"Come on, then," Stiles says cheerfully. "There's a dive over on Congress that's my favorite."

As Stiles pulls on his coat, Derek checks his phone and finds another text from Laura. _You okay?_ is all it says and Derek grins, shoots her back a message as he hits the lights on the studio wall. Stiles is outside waiting, his breath fogging in the cold air. Derek offers his hand. Stiles takes it and they head off into the night. 

_Never better._


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little something I'd like to see happen in 3B. Wishful thinking. 
> 
> Rating: General  
> Tags: Derek POV, Sheriff Stilinski, feels

Derek's been back in Beacon Hills for approximately a week before he's confronted by the sheriff. He'd been expecting it sooner, honestly - Cora had told him about Stiles' failed attempt to explain everything to him, but there was no way he could have passed off the whole showdown on the night of the eclipse as anything but supernatural. It makes sense for the sheriff to come to him; he's the only born werewolf in town (beside Peter, that is, and he has no idea where Peter's gone). Scott may be an alpha now, but he doesn't know anything about being a werewolf, which is mostly Derek's fault for not telling him in the first place.

Still, he's not expecting this talk to go down at the Mobil station out on the edge of town. He's standing next to his car pumping gas, gazing around with disinterest at the other cars, when he sees a cruiser pull into the parking lot, front end dipping as it passes over a pothole. Derek goes a little stiff, turning his head so he can watch it out of the corner of his eye. It's not like he has the best relationship with the law enforcement in this town. The cruiser pulls up to the pump next to his and the sheriff gets out. He doesn't seem to notice Derek at first, flipping his credit card between his fingers as he takes the cap off the gas tank. He's a lot like Stiles, Derek thinks, or rather - Stiles is a lot like him. The face he makes when the pump won't take his card is one Derek's seen on Stiles' face a hundred times. The frown that passes over it when the sheriff looks around and spots him is a lot less familiar. 

He's caught fair and square, though, so Derek lifts his hand in greeting. The sheriff frowns again and sticks his card back in his wallet before taking a few steps closer. "Mr. Hale," he greets cautiously. Derek notices the way his hand drifts toward his belt, where his gun sits holstered at his hip. 

"Sheriff," Derek says politely. 

"Didn't know you were back in town," the sheriff says. "Stiles didn't say anything."

"He doesn't know," Derek tells him. "I've only been back a week. Just been settling back in."

"Ah," the sheriff says, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Derek stands there awkwardly with his hand on the gas pump, waiting for all the questions about werewolves to start pouring in. He's not expecting what the sheriff says next.

"I'm sorry."

Derek stares at him. The gas pump clicks under his fingers, done filling, but he doesn't move. "What?"

"I'm sorry about your sister," the sheriff says firmly. "And I'm sorry we arrested you."

Derek's jaw tightens at the mention of Laura but he shrugs. "You were just doing your job."

"Stiles says your uncle killed her," the sheriff says. He sounds like he's reaching for something. "You know where he is?"

"No," Derek replies. He eyes the sheriff, who leans against the side of his car, completely casual, and realizes he can't read him. The man's heartbeat pounds out as steady as anything, his face completely neutral. He's a really good cop, Derek realizes, blinking. 

"Pity," the sheriff sighs. "Though the evidence doesn't exactly point toward human involvement, I suppose. Be hard to bring that to trial."

"You - You want to _arrest_ Peter?" Derek exclaims. 

"Sure," the sheriff frowns. "Killed your sister, didn't he? And quite a few others, if I understand correctly."

Derek wants to laugh because he's seeing the parallels between Stiles and his father yet again. He can hear Stiles saying _Can someone kill him again, please?_ and bites down on a smile. Instead he shakes his head and repeats, "I don't know where he is."

The sheriff nods, not bothered, and says, "You should come over for dinner."

"Tonight?" Derek says, alarmed, before he really thinks about what the sheriff has just said. Dinner? He looks at the sheriff suspiciously, but the man just smiles genially. 

"Soon," he says. "I've got a lot of questions about all of this, and I probably shouldn't be asking them at a gas station. And you could probably use a homemade meal, huh?"

"I know how to cook," Derek says, vaguely offended. 

"Sure," the sheriff agrees genially, "but you haven't had Stiles' tuna casserole. You come over, have some food, we'll talk. Monday good for you? Around 6?"

"Fine," Derek says, distracted. He's trying to picture Stiles being a competent chef but all he can imagine is disaster. He blinks as the sheriff smiles, mouth falling open when he realizes what he's just agreed to. "Uh - "

"I'll see you then, Mr. Hale," the sheriff tells him, pulling his keys out of his pocket. "You better go pay for your gas. Marv's been giving us the stink-eye for the last five minutes."

Derek glances over at the gas station window, where the clerk's glaring out at them. "I - right. I'll see you, sheriff."

"John," the man says, climbing back into his cruiser. "Call me John."


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the previous ficlet. Got a lot of requests for this!

Monday night finds Derek sitting in his car down the block from the Stilinski house. He's stupidly nervous and it's making him angry because he can't figure out why. It feels like he's meeting his girlfriend's parents or something, and that's stupid, _stupid._ He actually put on a button-up shirt before glaring at himself in the mirror and switching it out for a white henley. It's not like the sheriff's going to arrest him because he didn't fucking dress up. 

The car clock says it's 5:50 and he makes himself move, unfolding from the car and slamming the door behind him. Maybe he's feeling like this because he hasn't talked to Stiles since before Derek and Cora left town. Hasn't even seen him since he woke up to Stiles punching him in the hospital elevator. Maybe he should have reached out when he got back into town, but he hasn't even said anything to Scott. He's been enjoying living without the drama of - of _anything_. He's pretty sure Stiles is going to be pissed he didn't say anything, but it's not like Derek owes him that.  

Derek grimaces and knocks on the front door, shifting the six-pack of beer he brought to the other hand. He can hear voices inside, muffled by the wood, and then footsteps before the door's jerked open. Stiles stands there, blinking at Derek. Stiles looks the same as he did when Derek left, which isn't surprising - it's only been a month and a half - but there are deep, tired circles under his eyes. Those weren't there when Derek left. He feels a little uneasy, wondering if something's been happening while he was away. 

"Hi," Stiles says, a little suspiciously. Derek notes that _he's_ wearing a button-up - one that's not plaid, for once - and he suddenly feels underdressed. The shirt fits Stiles well - also unusual. He has a vague memory of Stiles at the old house the night they killed Peter, wearing a dress shirt two sizes too big. Derek never noticed how broad his shoulders are. "You're back."

"Yeah," Derek agrees. 

"And you're at my house." Stiles' eyes narrow. "Why?"

"I'm here for dinner," Derek says mildly, lifting the six-pack like it's an invitation. 

"Oh," Stiles says, his expression clearing. _"You're_ our guest?"

"Your dad didn't tell you?"

"He said it was a surprise." The grin Stiles gives him then is startling, blinding. "Come in, then."

Derek follows Stiles into the front hall. He's only been in the Stilinski house once, that time almost a year ago when he was on the run. He came in through Stiles' window that time, never saw the downstairs. It's not a huge house and seems well-loved, but a little neglected. He doesn't think either of the Stilinskis spend much time here, but someone once put a lot of care in little touches; a framed crayon drawing of a tree with a scribbled STAS, AGE 6 in the bottom corner,  a dusty fake plant on the bookcase, a porcelain figurine of a doe and fawn right next to it, one of the fawn's ears chipped. It was probably the woman in the family portrait hanging on the stairs, sitting with a very young Stiles on her lap, a much younger version of the sheriff standing behind her. 

"Bathroom's here," Stiles says, already halfway down the hall. Derek blinks and kicks off his shoes, adding them to the pile behind the door, and follows Stiles into the kitchen. It's small and warm, painted in a warm shade of goldenrod. Derek inhales deeply; the air's heavy with the scent of food cooking and while he wasn't lying when he told the sheriff he knew how to cook, it has in fact been a long, long time since he had a real home-cooked meal. Not since Laura was alive, at least. He's somehow both vaguely disappointed and surprised to see that the kitchen is not a mess; he'd had trouble reconciling "Stiles" with "good cook," but apparently he was mistaken. The kitchen's clean, only a stack of dishes piled by the sink and a chopping board with a pile of vegetables sitting on it. 

"You can sit, if you want," Stiles says, nodding toward the counter, where there's a couple of stools. "I can take that," he adds, nodding at the six pack. 

"Do you need any help?" Derek asks, passing it over. He watches Stiles stick it in the fridge and shake his head. 

"Nah, just wanted to steam these," he replies, jerking his head toward the pile of vegetables. "Everything else is almost done."

Derek sits at the counter, watching Stiles push his sleeves up and pick up a knife, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he slices up broccoli. "Who taught you to cook?"

"My mom," Stiles replies, not looking up. "Dad's always been useless in the kitchen. He's upstairs, by the way." Stiles points the knife toward the ceiling. "He just got off shift."

Derek nods. If he listens, he can hear the sheriff moving around upstairs, the sound of a closet door opening. He watches Stiles work and frowns faintly. He expected an onslaught of questions - where he's been, what he's been doing - but Stiles doesn't seem interested in talking. He doesn't seem opposed to Derek's presence - he doesn't smell like dislike or hostility or anything - but he just seems…tired. His resting face is flat and unhappy, his eyelids heavy. 

"Are you okay?" Derek asks abruptly. Stiles' head jerks and he blinks over at Derek like he'd forgotten he was there.

"Yeah," Stiles says, after too long of a pause. Derek frowns because he can hear the lie in that one word. Stiles shrugs, just one shoulder, and adds, "Haven't been sleeping well." That statement rings with truth, but it's a vast oversimplification if Derek's ever heard one. His frown deepens, but he doesn't press it further because the sheriff's coming down the stairs. He comes into the kitchen sweeping a hand over his hair, which is still damp from a shower, and nods when he sees Derek sitting at the counter. 

"Mr. Hale."

"You can call me Derek," Derek says, shifting uncomfortably on the stool. 

"He brought beer, Dad," Stiles says helpfully, pointing at the fridge. 

"It's illegal to bribe an officer of the law," the sheriff says solemnly, opening the fridge. "Thank you, Derek. You want one?"

Derek nods. He can't get drunk, but it's more of a social thing anyway. Stiles opens his mouth and the sheriff shakes a finger at him. 

"Don't even," he says, sliding a beer across the counter to Derek. Stiles pretends to pout, then bends to look in the oven as a timer goes off on the stove. 

"Food," Stiles announces, pulling a casserole dish out, accompanied by a wave of heavenly smells. "Dad, grab the rolls." 

When they sit down at the table in the dining room, there's quite a spread laid out for them; tuna casserole and steamed vegetables and rolls and rice. Derek can't help the way his eyebrows rise when he takes his first bite and it's _delicious._ Stiles grins across the table at him.

"I'm a good cook," he says confidently. "Don't look so surprised."

"Learned from the best," the sheriff agrees. "Now, Derek, where'd you disappear off to? Where's your sister?"

Derek swallows his mouthful of food and tells them how he and Cora drove up the coast. Apparently after the fire she'd found her way up to a pack outside of Seattle, and she'd decided to stay there instead of returning to Beacon Hills. Derek can't fault her for not wanting to return. He doesn't say this to the Stilinskis, but he hadn't particularly wanted to return either, but there are still things left unresolved, like Scott's newfound alpha powers, or where the hell Peter's gone, and he doesn't feel right, leaving all that in the hands of teenagers. 

Instead, the mention of a pack outside of Seattle has the sheriff asking him all sorts of things about the way packs work; how big are they, are they made of multiple families, how does territory work, do packs ally with each other or humans. Derek doesn't mind talking about it; he figures the more they know and understand, the better off they'll be. Things only went to shit when he tried to keep stuff to himself before, and he trusts the sheriff, knows he makes wise decisions. He wouldn't have been elected to his position if people didn't trust his judgement. 

Stiles doesn't ask a lot of questions; he mostly listens, head bowed as he eats. Derek glances between him and the sheriff, wondering if the sheriff's noticed the way his son has lost weight in his face, or how dark the circles under his eyes are. It's not normal, the way he's so subdued. Derek's a little unnerved. 

The sheriff's asking him about defenses. "Stiles told me about mountain ash," he says, "but you have to - what was it you said?"

"You need a spark," Stiles sighs, stabbing a piece of broccoli with his fork.

"Right," the sheriff nods. "But tell me, son, are there - "

Stiles' head comes up sharply. Derek nearly drops his fork. Son. It shouldn't affect him like it does, but no one's called him that since he was sixteen, not since his dad stood in front of him on the morning of the fire and clapped a hand on his shoulder as he passed over the keys to the car and said, "Listen, son, if I hear from anyone that you drove any faster than thirty miles an hour, I'm going to neuter you." He can't tell if it hurts or if it's comforting or if it's some strange place right in the middle.

The sheriff's still talking, oblivious, but Stiles is watching him, his eyes flickering between his father and Derek. _You all right?_ he mouths when he catches Derek's eyes. Derek nods, a quick jerk of his head, as the sheriff finishes, " - you think?"

Derek blinks at him. "Uh."

"I'm pretty sure Derek's not familiar with means of protecting humans from werewolves, Dad," Stiles puts in quickly, "considering he's never had to deal with it himself."

"Fair enough," the sheriff says genially. He reaches for his third dinner roll and Stiles smacks his hand away.

"That's enough carbs for you, sheriff," he says. 

"I've got a gun," the sheriff retorts mutinously, but he doesn't try again. Derek can tell it's an old battle and grins into his rice. 

It's a nice evening. He washes the dishes while the sheriff dries and Stiles sits at the counter, talking about researching he's been doing on the nemeton. It feels normal in a way Derek hasn't felt in a long time. He and Laura always ate together, but they were both terrible cooks, so it was usually take-out or microwave meals, stuff that was easy and wouldn't go to waste. Meals at home, with the pack before the fire, had always been huge, lively affairs and he hadn't realized how much he missed it until tonight. 

"Well," the sheriff says as Derek's heading for the door, slipping on his shoes, "it was nice having you here, Derek."

"Thank you," Derek says gravely, "for inviting me."

"We'll do it again soon," the sheriff promises.

"Thank you," Derek says again, his eyes slipping over to Stiles, who rolls his eyes and grins. "I'd like that."

And the amazing thing is that he would. He wouldn't mind it at all. 


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did [this kiss meme](http://byuldeureul.tumblr.com/post/56734171866/send-me-one-of-the-following-numbers-a-ship), and below are the fills I did for it. I'm posting them in one chapter because they're all pretty short. 
> 
> Rating: General - Explicit  
> Applicable Tags:  
> WARNING: The final fill involves them hurting each other physically.

**21\. Kiss with a fist + 3. Nose kiss**

"Der," Stiles gasps, back arching off the mattress. "Stop, haha, fucking  _stop - “_

Derek grins, his fingers digging into Stiles’ ribs. “Say uncle.” 

"Bringing up Peter at a time like this?" Stiles wheezes. Derek glares at him and digs in his fingers with double the enthusiasm, tickling him until he’s half crying, flailing his arms around as he tries to escape Derek’s grasp. One of his waving fists hits Derek right in the nose and Derek rears back immediately while Stiles gasps for breath underneath him. "S-sorry," Stiles groans. "I’m sorry, babe, c’mere."  

Derek lets Stiles take his face in both hands and plant a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose. “Better?” 

"Still hurts," Derek says quietly, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.  

"Goodness," Stiles murmurs, kissing his nose again, and then his forehead and his cheeks and his mouth. Derek curls an arm around his back, keeping him there until Stiles is breathless again. He grins against Derek’s mouth. "Better?"

"Much better."

-

**15\. Kiss in the rain**

It starts raining as they’re trudging down the side of the road. Stiles starts laughing in Derek’s ear. 

"What are you laughing about?" Derek growls. He’s not feeling all too cheerful at the moment, having carried Stiles on his back for the last five miles. 

"It’s - it’s just typical," Stiles sighs into his neck. "The car breaks down, I twist my ankle, there’s no cell service, and now it’s raining." He pats Derek’s cheek. "Why don’t we take a break? We can’t get any wetter." 

Derek sighs, but heads for a dense pine tree at the side of the road. He helps Stiles hobble under its branches and they settle down on the ground. It’s still wet under there, fat drops of water dripping through the branches onto them. Stiles huddles against Derek’s side, shaking a little with the chill. Derek loops an arm around his shoulders, nuzzling into his temple. “It’s always an adventure with you.” 

Stiles laughs as the rain grows heavier, shudders when the branches bend and dump water on them. Derek turns to look at him and smiles despite himself. He leans into Stiles, dragging the tip of his nose along Stiles’ cheekbone before dipping in for a real kiss, the burning heat of his mouth a pleasant contrast to the chill of the air. 

"Mm," Stiles sighs against him, his teeth catching briefly against Derek’s bottom lip. "Hey, I bet we can stave off hypothermia if we get - "

"Car," Derek says abruptly, twisting around to scramble out from under the tree. It’s the first car they’ve seen since they started walking. Stiles pouts, limping after him, but as the elderly sedan pulls to the side of the road, Derek wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist, murmuring into his ear, "We’ll have to get a hotel in town. Make sure we get warm."

_"Oh,"_ Stiles grins. “Survival measures, huh?”

"You got it."

-

**16\. Upside-Down kiss**

"Only you," Derek says, exasperated. 

"Can we cut it with the rude looks and the sass?" Stiles asks. He’s kind of swaying in midair, body swinging side to side like a pendulum. "You act like I draw a big target on my back and lay out in the street waiting to get kidnapped."

"Don’t pretend you don’t have a shirt with a target on the chest." Derek folds his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles groans. “Okay, it’s my favorite shirt, so sue me.” He tries to shimmy around, but ends up spinning lazily. “Oh, oh, shit, dude, make it stop. I’m gonna puke!”

Derek sighs, put upon, and catches Stiles by the sides of his face, which is just about head height. He keeps his hands there, thumbs stroking over Stiles’ cheekbones. “I’m going to stop coming after you eventually.”

"Liar," Stiles says. He doesn’t even need to think about it, and he’s right; Derek will always rescue him. 

"Caught me," Derek says quietly, watching the way Stiles’ eyes fold up at the corners when he smiles. He tilts his head forward, catching Stiles’ lips in a soft kiss, only pulling away when Stiles starts shaking around under his hands. Derek thinks Stiles might be making good on his threat to puke, but quickly realizes he’s _laughing._

"Oh my god," Stiles gasps. "You just Spiderman-kissed me!" He starts snorting. "And I’m the one hanging upside down, so that makes you Mary Jane!"

Derek glowers at him. “On second thought, I may just leave you here.”

"No, no," Stiles cries, tear leaking from the corners of his eyes, rolling down his forehead. "Your boobs are _way_ better than Kirsten Dunst’s!” 

"Bye," Derek tells him pointedly, stepping backward into the darkness. He waits there, silent. It takes Stiles about five seconds to start pleading with him to come back, and Derek about twenty seconds to give in, stepping back into the light to cut down his boyfriend. Stiles starts humming the Spiderman theme song as they walk out of the warehouse. Derek is very considerate and only uses a quarter of his strength when he suckerpunches Stiles in the stomach. 

-

**9\. Jawline kiss**

It’s a rainy Saturday morning when Derek gets awoken by soft fingers trailing down his chest, smoothing over his pecs and flat stomach, sliding back up to follow the bumps of his ribs, dipping over his collarbones. He cracks his eyes open when they slip up his throat, unable to stop the slight shudder than wracks his body. Stiles is leaning on his elbow next to him, the warmth of his body pressed up alongside Derek’s. He smiles sleepily when he see Derek awake.

"Mornin’," Stiles murmurs. He stretches like a cat and ends up sprawled across Derek’s chest. Derek can feel his breath when he speaks, hot and wet against his throat. "You sleep okay?"

"Great," Derek replies quietly, bringing a hand up to stroke along Stiles’ spine. Stiles makes a noise almost like a purr and tilts his head, kissing Derek’s chin. 

"You can stay?"

"For a while." Derek closes his eyes, lips parting silently as Stiles leans into him, tongue scraping over Derek’s stubble as he mouths along his jaw. Derek can’t help the breathless noise that slips from him, the one that makes Stiles grin against his skin and dig his teeth in. Derek groans like the noise has been punched out of him, tensing his fingers against Stiles’ back. Stiles sucks at his skin hard enough to bruise, pressing his lips against the hot bite he’s left on Derek’s jaw.

"Stay," he tells Derek. Derek will. Maybe forever.

-

**13\. Stomach kiss**

Derek’s laying on the floor when Stiles wanders out of the bedroom, yawning widely. He’s on his way to the kitchen when he sees Derek, back flat on the floor, eyes unfocused as he stares up at the ceiling. He’s been exercising, Stiles thinks, judging by the way he’s shirtless and covered in sweat. Probably doing stomach curls before he got lost in whatever daydream he’s having. Must be a good one, Stiles thinks, noting the beginnings of a tent in his shorts. Stiles frowns. Or is it the end? Maybe that’s why he’s all sweaty. Stiles is vaguely offended that he wasn’t consulted about this. 

"Come here."

Stiles blinks and realizes that Derek’s turned his head to look at him. Stiles grins disarmingly. “What, me?” he asks, even as he moves around the couch. 

The corners of Derek’s lips curl in a smile. He blinks slowly as Stiles knees between his legs, puts a hand on either bent knee. 

"Sir," Stiles tells him solemnly, "it appears that you’ve got a situation in your pants. Do you require assistance?" 

"If it’s no trouble," Derek replies, just as serious. There’s light sparkling in his eyes, though. 

"Standby," Stiles says gravely, stretching forward for a quick peck to Derek’s lips before he slips down Derek’s body, hands warm against Derek’s rib. He stops above the line of Derek’s short, though, pauses for a moment like he doesn’t know where to start, then dips down, pressing his mouth to the toned muscles of Derek’s stomach. 

The first and only time he ever tried licking Derek’s abs, Derek nearly bucked him off, only growling “Kate,” in explanation. Which Stiles gets, but Derek’s stomach calls to him like a siren. He doesn’t lick; he kisses instead, big, noisy wet kisses, trailing his way over Derek’s belly button. He bites down on Derek’s happy trail, smiles at the way Derek swears and arches his back, and noses his way down where the elastic band of Derek’s short sit. He pauses there, curling his fingers in the material, and glances up at Derek’s face. The expression he sees is soft, fond, flushed with heat. Derek gives him a thumbs up and Stiles snorts, pulling at his shorts as he mutters, “All systems go.”

-

**21\. Kiss with a Fist (violent version)**

**Warning: Abuse**

"I’m going to _kill_ you,” Derek snarls, slamming the loft door closed behind them.

Stiles spits blood on the floor, prods at what feels like a loose tooth with his tongue before his eyes snap up to Derek. He spreads his hands wide. “Get in line.”

"Is this a game to you?" Derek asks furiously. "You think I’m going to be laughing when we come out of a battle and you’re dead?"

Stiles rolls his eyes, a dark crescent of a bruise below his left eye socket stretching with the movement. “You’re such a fucking drama queen. Just gimme a second, would you? I think I’ve got your crown somewhere - “

Derek surges forward with a snarl, lifting Stiles by the collar of his shirt, slamming him against the brick so hard all the air rushes from his lungs. Stiles kicks at him, catching him mid-thigh with a muddy sneaker. Derek doesn’t even wince. He _shakes_ Stiles, shakes him until his teeth clatter together, his eyes burning red with fury. “You don’t fucking get it,” Derek hisses, face twisted into something dark and ugly.

"Put me _down_ ,” Stiles retorts angrily. Derek shakes him again, his head smacking against the brick, and Stiles swings at him, catching Derek across the face with an open-palmed slap. It doesn’t hurt him, but the noise is loud and makes them both pause. Stiles swallows quietly, curling his fingers around Derek’s wrists as Derek lowers him to the floor without a word.

The world seems to shift ninety degrees. Derek steps into the space between Stiles’ legs and Stiles lifts his hands, combing the mud and dried blood from Derek’s hair with his long fingers. Life isn’t any softer than it was thirty seconds ago, but now Stiles leans against the wall, tilts his head back so Derek can huff quietly against his throat.

"Don’t want to lose you," Derek says quietly, tongue slipping against Stiles’ skin. 

Stiles keens quietly, shifting his hips up into Derek’s. He’s hard, like he always is when he’s bleeding. It’s fucked up, more fucked up that for all Derek gets angry, Stiles knows Derek likes the taste of his blood. Even more fucked up that Stiles likes watching him lick it off him. “You’re not gonna lose me. I promise.”

"You’re not the one who has to make sure that promise is kept," Derek murmurs. He catches Stiles by the hair, fingers gentle but his pull rough, jerking him forward into a vicious kiss. Stiles bites at Derek’s lip, bites until he tastes blood, and he can feel the way Derek’s cock jumps against his thigh. He smiles as he lets his jaw drop, lets Derek fuck into his mouth with his tongue, slick with saliva and blood. One of them’s going to get fucked until they’re screaming tonight. He hopes it’s him. 


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Renqa](hushlittlewolf.tumblr.com) & [Amanda](the1001cranes.tumblr.com). Because we were talking about all kinds of beautiful tragedy over on Twitter and I couldn't get it out of my head.
> 
> Rating: Mature  
> Applicable Tags: Derek POV, Hunters
> 
> WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS

**Warning: Major character deaths.**

It always amazes Derek how utterly nonchalant Stiles can be sometimes, even in the face of danger. Like now, they're sitting behind a rock, bullets slamming into the trees around them, and Stiles is griping about how his favorite sweatshirt's now got a gaping hole in the sleeve, like it's really that important.

"That would have been _you_ if I hadn't pulled you down," Derek says irritably, tucking his knees to his chest. 

Stiles grunts expressively, fingering the hole in his shirt. 

"You need to pay more attention," Derek tells him. "You're going to get us both killed."

Stiles snorts. "Yeah, blame the human. You're the one with the supernatural vision and hearing, bud. Why didn't _you_ notice the hunters sooner?"

"It's three o'clock in the afternoon!" Derek retorts. "I wasn't expecting them!"

"And you think I was?" Stiles asks stormily. "Fine, blame it on me. You see if you get woken up with any more blow jobs." 

"Breaking out the bigs guns, huh?" Derek says, his face softening. Stiles glances over at him and grins, ducking down as a bullet ricochets off the rock above them, sending fragments of stone pattering down on them. "What'd Scott say?"

"ETA twenty minutes," Stiles shrugs. "Isaac says he's on his way, but you know his sense of direction's horrible."

Derek snorts. "He's a terrible werewolf."

"You're the one that turned him," Stiles reminds Derek, leaning his head against Derek's shoulder. He sighs softly. "Wish we'd brought some snacks on this little hike of ours."

"Surprised you didn't have any hidden in that tent of a sweatshirt," Derek teases.

"I did," Stiles says smugly, smirking a little before his face falls. "I ate them in the car."

"Knew I heard you munching on something," Derek says. He stills, tilting his head to one side. Stiles looks at him curiously. "They're talking about leaving," Derek tells him, frowning in concentration. The hunters are far off in the woods; they're using rifles to shoot from the trees. He can't hear any of their heartbeats, can barely hear their conversation. "They're leaving."

"Thank god," Stiles grumbles. "I guess I should be thankful we got a chance to sit, at least. You hike like it's a punishment." 

"I do not," Derek argues, only half paying attention. He can hear the hunters moving off through the trees; either they've given up or they think he and Stiles are dear or have escaped. That's fine with him; he wasn't really prepared for a battle in the middle of the afternoon. He and Stiles remain where they are for another five minutes before Derek deems it safe. They get to their feet, brushing dirt and leaves from their pants, and make it about ten yards before the gunfire resumes, peppering the trees around them. Derek swears - some of the hunters must have stayed behind and laid in wait - and grabs Stiles by the arm, towing him through the trees in what he hopes is the opposite direction of the hunters; he's not sure any more; he's getting disoriented by the sound of gunfire echoing off the trees. Where the hell is Isaac? 

A bullet clips his arm and Derek snarls in pain but doesn't slow. Stiles is breathing heavily next to him, scent laced with fear. 

"We'll be fine," Derek tells him, towing him along as fast as he can go. "Just gotta get - " He's got a vague memory of a cave around here, hidden in the roots of a fallen tree. They just need to find the tree and they'll be okay - Stiles whimpers next to him and Derek smells the blood, strong and coppery, before it registers with him that Stiles has been hit just below his ribs, dark stains blooming on the front and back of him. "Fuck!" he says furiously, anger and fear surging in him. Stiles can't run; he's bent over, gasping in pain. Derek has no choice but to pick him up, throw him over his shoulder and sprint, _sprint_ through the trees as fast as he can. He's not as fast as he could be this way, but he's faster than he was when Stiles was running, and he manages to lose the hunters, the sounds of their voices fading as he leaves the range of the bullets. 

"Derek," Stiles is repeating in a tiny voice, his voice high and marked with pain. "Derek, Derek." 

"I got you," Derek soothes, skidding down an embankment. _There's_ the fallen tree he remembers, and shallow circle of dirt hidden behind its roots, room enough for two people. He tucks them down in there, laying Stiles on the ground so he can take in the damage. 

It's bad. Stiles is already going pale, his hands shaking so hard he can't hold on to Derek. Blood rushes out of him every time he breathes out and it's coming out of his mouth too, leaking around the edges. 

"Fuck," Derek says again, terrified. He smooths a hand over Stiles' sweaty brow, his other hand pressing down over the bullet wound, trying fruitlessly to stop the bleeding. He doesn't think he can get to the car - they came from the opposite direction and now the hunters are between them. 

"Der," Stiles says hoarsely, his teeth smeared red with blood. He stares up at Derek, eyes dark and frightened. "Der, I don't wanna die."

"You're not," Derek tells him, but he is if Derek doesn't think of something quick. There's no time for the hospital, no time for anything. "I - I have to give you the bite, Stiles."

Stiles hiccups painfully, his eyes watery and losing focus. "Can't die," he tells Derek, breathing hard and stilted, chest shuddering. "It'll kill Dad."

"I have to give you the bite," Derek repeats. "Stiles, please, tell me I can."

Stiles nods, his eyes fluttering closed. Derek exhales as his fangs drop from his gums. It's everything the wolf in his head has ever wanted, but Derek's never wanted it - Stiles never wanted it - and especially not like this; in a panic with no other choice. The terror of losing Stiles, though, overrides all else, and he hunches over, pushing back Stiles' shirt and sinking his teeth into Stiles' soft side just a few inches from the bullet wound. Stiles arches against him with a faint yell, heels digging into the dirt, hands scrambling at Derek's hair. Derek shuts his eyes against the blood filling his mouth, swallows without meaning to. He gags on the harsh aftertaste, spits what's left in his mouth onto the dirt, and recoils in horror when he's sees it's black. 

"No," Derek says, his eyes going wide. "No, no - " Wolfsbane. Fucking wolfsbane. He should have guessed - should have known the hunters wouldn't have been going after him with ordinary bullets. He shoves a finger down his throat, desperate, trying to puke up the poison but it's already in him. He can feel it burning, starting to move through his veins. Whatever strain it is, it's potent. 

Stiles is laying still on the ground, his eyes closed, his heart hammering. The wound on his stomach and the bite mark on his ribs are not healing, no; they're starting to leak a heavy black liquid, mixing with the red blood already smeared across his skin. 

"No," Derek groans. He tries to get his hands under Stiles' armpits. He's got to get them moving. If they can get to the road, someone can take them to the hospital. Melissa's got wolfsbane hidden there. She can heal both of them. But he's having trouble getting his body to do want he wants it to; it moves in fits and starts, no finesse. He can't feel his fingers.

Stiles moans underneath him, a full-body shudder shaking him. His fingers claw at the dirt, their tips swinging from human nails to pointed claws. His eyes come open, just a sliver, and Derek can see how they burn gold. "W-what did you do to me?" Stiles whimpers, sharp teeth digging into his bottom lip as he arches his spine against a wave of pain.

Derek can't keep himself upright, the poison numbing his limbs, fogging his brain. He slips to his knees, then onto his side, chest heaving. "'M s'rry," he slurs, fighting the dead weight of his tongue. "W'lfsbane." He can taste the poison in his mouth, lips slick with heavy black blood. It's leaking from his nose, trickling down the back of his throat. 

Stiles whimpers again, mouth slack with agony. Derek doesn't know if it's really the wolfsbane or if Stiles' body is rejecting the bite. All he knows is that what pieces left if him that he can feel burn like fire, licking at his insides. He groans and presses his face into the dirt. He hasn't expected death in a long time. He isn't prepared for this, isn't ready. He's losing Stiles faster than he's losing himself and he's not ready for that either. Derek reaches for Stiles with what strength he has left, fingers too stiff to hold his hand; he can only place his palm over Stiles' arm.

Stiles is leaving him; he can feel it in his erratic pulse and the way the sounds of pain he's making are starting to crescendo. Derek has heard Stiles scream before - from pleasure in bed, from pain when he broke his leg - but the way he screams now is different, deep and animalistic and tortured. He sounds like Derek's family, burning in the fire. He sounds like Paige. He sounds like death and there's nothing Derek can do to stop it; he can't even lift his head now, body weighed down by poison. All he can do is lay in the dirt, muscles spasming, vision dimming as he listens to the boy he loves wail in suffering. All he ever wanted was to keep Stiles safe.

The quiet, when it falls, rings in Derek's ears. He doesn't know how long it's been - minutes, hours - or if the end came abruptly or if he faded away. Stiles has stopped screaming, though, and his heart's stopped beating. Derek is alone again, not for the first time in his life, but for the last, and not for much longer. 

Derek dies engulfed in silence, tainted blood blackening his chin, unseeing eyes fixed on the boy he stayed human for. When his last breath rattles from his body, it sounds like a sigh. It sounds like a promise. It sounds like Stiles. 


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame for this one goes to [Jade](whittenomore.tumblr.com) and [the awful things she's always saying on Twitter](http://i.imgur.com/4MySDHp.png).
> 
> Rating: General  
> Applicable Tags: Derek POV, not Sterek, Dreams, Nemeton, Post 3A

A couple weeks after Derek returns to Beacon Hills, he moves out of the loft. He can't sleep there, not with everything that happened there. He moves to a small apartment instead but finds he sleeps just as badly there. He takes to sleeping during the day; the dreams don't seem as bad when he can see daylight through his eyelids. 

He takes to roaming the forest at night, surrounded by trees and fresh air. It doesn't feel as good as it used to; the woods are tainted by the power of the nemeton. He can feel it's magic buzzing around him any time he steps foot among the trees. It's not bad, but it's not good. It feels like a storm's coming, and it puts him on edge. 

On his third night of jogging through the woods, Derek reaches the barren spot where the nemeton's stump sits and slows at the sight of the hunched shape splayed across the moss-covered wood. It's not dead, whatever it is; it's got a heart-beat and it smells human. When he gets close enough, treading softly across the sandy dirt, he stops cold at the sight of Allison Argent, curled on her side atop the stump. She's shivering faintly in the cool night air and appears to be fast asleep.

Derek looks around the trees, bewildered. Is this some kind of trap? He can't hear or smell anyone else; Allison appears to be alone. He looks back down at her and briefly considers just leaving her, but the woods may still be dangerous, and even if they're enemies (or _whatever_ they are; he's no longer sure of much of anything), he can't leave her there in good conscience. Derek leans forward and roughly shakes her by the shoulder. Allison stirs with a start, her dark eyes wide and confused. He watches her look around at the forest, confusion building by the minute. 

"What are you doing out here?" Derek asks her, folding his arms across his chest. 

Allison blinks blearily and says, "I was dreaming."

Derek sighs. He's not quite sure what happened the night of the eclipse, only that Scott, Allison, and Stiles did _something_ that put all of them in danger, something that had to do with the nemeton. "Whatever," he tells Allison, because it's nearly three in the morning and he doesn't really care right now. "Get up. I'll give you a ride home."

He drops Allison off in front of the apartment building the Argents live in and waits for her to reach the doors before he drives off. It's not his business, he decides. 

Three nights later, Derek finds Stiles sprawled across the stump, limbs spread-eagled in a way that's completely ridiculous and completely Stiles. Derek sighs again and digs the tip of his boot into Stiles' ribs until he wakes up, his eyes flying open. Derek doesn't bother asking what he's doing there; from the bewildered look on Stiles' face, he's not going to have an answer. He drives Stiles home, drops him off in front of an empty house, and goes back to the woods. 

Derek wakes early the next evening, and heads to the woods as the sun sets. He settles at the base of a tree a couple hundred feet from the stump of the nemeton and waits. He's not disappointed; Scott comes out of the trees sometime around eleven. He's walking unevenly, jerking forward like there's a hook in his chest that's pulling him along. His eyes are open but clearly unseeing as he lowers himself down onto the nemeton, turning onto his side before his eyes settle shut. Derek gets to his feet, but pauses as Stiles comes out of the woods, the same blank look on his face. He curls up on the stump next to Scott, pressed back to back with his best friend. Derek grimaces. 

The next night, it's all three of them pressed together; Scott in the middle with Stiles and Allison on either side. They don't speak when Derek wakes them up, just stumble together in a quiet line to Derek's car. He should be pleased, he supposes. The new car was supposed to be better for ferrying pack around. It's finally serving its purpose, even if they're not actually _his_ pack. 

This happens night after night. No one offers up any explanations. The most he gets out of Scott is that they keep visiting a white room and Derek stops asking questions after that. He remembers that white room from the night Peter came back. That's the night the bad dreams got worse. 

After a while, Derek stops waking the trio when he finds them. They've all got deep, dark circles under their eyes, and Derek's got a feeling he's causing more harm than good by waking them up. There are a couple nights where he wakes them and brings them home only to find them back a few hours later. He keeps close instead, watching the trees, watching over them. After a couple of cold nights in a row, he brings the thick comforter off his bed to cover them with, and if any of them notice, no one says anything. Derek's grateful for that. 

In the mornings, they rise on their own. Sometimes Derek is there, and sometimes he misses them, but he usually finds them on the road out of the forest and he brings them home. Sometimes their parents are waiting for them; Melissa McCall sitting on the front steps with her arms across her knees, Sheriff Stilinski on the porch with a cup of coffee and deep, tired worry on his face, Chris Argent leaning against the wall of the apartment building, looking decades too old.They take hold of their children and nod at Derek and Derek nods back.

No one says anything, and when things start falling to shit a few weeks later, Derek wonders _why_.


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ficlet written for [this](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/65099136505) adorable piece of fanart.

The call comes in the early morning hours before the sun has risen. Stiles is trapped under the weight of Derek's body, covered by him like a blanket, but he manages to wrestle an arm out and slaps at the nightstand until his fingers curl around his phone. He squints blearily at the number before giving up and putting the phone to his ear. 

"'lo?"

"Stiles?" It takes a moment for his brain to recognize the voice as Marcy, the night-time dispatcher down at the station. That's all his mind needs to kick his heart into a frantic patter because there's no reason for her to be calling at - he twists to look at the clock on Derek's nightstand - almost three in the morning if there's nothing wrong, and if there's something wrong, there's something wrong with his dad. Derek stirs above him, roused by the panicked beating of his heart. 

"What is it?" Stiles hisses, wide awake now. "What happened to him?"

"There was - he's alive, okay?" Marcy says evenly, her voice way too calm. "He got shot. They're taking him to the hospital right now."

"Oh god," Stiles says blankly. Derek slips off him, nudging him toward the edge of the bed. Stiles doesn't need the prodding; he gets out of bed, the phone still clasped to his ear, and reaches for his clothes automatically. "Who shot him? What happened?"

"Routine traffic stop," Marcy says. "Not routine, obviously."

Stiles laughs, bitter and little hysterical, and Marcy says, "He's all right, Stiles. He was awake when the ambulance got there. They just need to patch him up. You head that way, though; I know he'd like to see you."

Stiles hangs up and rubs his hands over his face. He's freezing. When he turns around, Derek's there behind him, fully dressed, and he puts his arms around Stiles without a word. Stiles clutches at his shoulders gratefully, stealing heat from his hot body, and tries to will his body to stop shaking. He's not successful. 

"He'll be okay," Derek says quietly, planting a kiss to Stiles' temple. "Get your sweatshirt on. I'll drive."

Stiles nods, forever grateful for the way Derek always remains calm through a crisis. He manages to pull his sweatshirt on backwards twice before getting it right and heading downstairs to where Derek's waiting by the front door, keys in hand. He squeezes Stiles' hand, holds it all the way to the hospital while Stiles sits in the passenger's seat and fidgets and tries to remember how to breathe. 

Stiles almost has a panic attack as they walk into the hospital. His knees go all wobbly and his breath starts hitching because it's too much like his mom, his dad's never been hurt on the job like this (apart from that one time he got trampled by a renegade cow and that was almost too funny to be scared about). Stiles hates being in hospitals, has since he was ten and he heard that sound of his mom flat-lining, and - Derek's got his hands on Stiles's shoulders, pushing him in down into a chair. He kneels down in front of Stiles and cups his cheeks in his hands and he says, "Relax."

And the funny thing is, Stiles does. He takes one deep, shuddering breath, and then another and another and another until he can breathe again. Derek nods, satisfied, and gets to his feet. "Stay here," he says, and walks away, and when he comes back he's got a doctor with him. The doctor is inappropriately chipper for three o'clock in the morning, but Stiles is okay with that because she tells him that his dad's doing fine; he's in surgery to get the bullet out, but it didn't hit anything vital and he didn't lose that much blood. Derek disappears again while the doctor's talking to Stiles and when he comes back he hands a styrofoam cup to Stiles. Stiles takes a sip, expecting coffee, but he gets hot chocolate instead and he has to lean over and plant a kiss on Derek's cheek because only Derek knows that his dad used to make him hot chocolate after a panic attack, even in the middle of summer.

Derek settles into the hard plastic chair next to him and crosses his arms over his chest, ready to sit all night if he has to, and when Stiles leans into his side all he does is lower his shoulder so Stiles can rest his head against him. "Thank you," Stiles murmurs as they settle in for the long wait. Derek's only response is to rest his cheek against the top of Stiles' head, his arm crossing the armrest so he can curl their fingers together. 

Stiles' dad is fine, as promised. He rolls his eyes when Stiles starts crying at his bedside, but he pats Stiles on the head and shoots Derek an exasperated, fond look that says  _remind me again why we love this doofus_ and Derek has to duck his head to keep from laughing. 


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was like pulling teeth, but Renqa drew [this](http://2amsugarrush.tumblr.com/post/66227144061/was-talking-to-grimm-before-falling-asleep) and I told her I'd write a fic for it! I told Renqa, even though the Stiles she drew doesn't have tattoos, I think this scene is part of the [By Fang and Fury](http://archiveofourown.org/series/48123) verse and we got to talking, and long story short maybe there will be a new addition to that verse soon.

The alarm on Derek's phone goes off, a soft piano melody he hates more with every passing day. He reaches out blindly, slapping his hand around until he finds his phone, and shuts the alarm off. Derek rolls back over with a soft sigh, curling his arm around Stiles, who hasn't budged. It's useless, though; he's already waking up, sleep slipping away like sand through his fingers. He presses his nose into Stiles' hairline, inhaling deeply before pulling himself out of bed and toward the bathroom. Behind him, Stiles shifts minutely, murmuring something under his breath that even Derek's werewolf senses can't decipher.

When Derek reemerges from his shower, steam curling around his shoulders, the bed's empty. He can hear Stiles moving around in the kitchen, the smell of coffee hanging heavily in the air. Derek dresses slowly; he's slow to wake in the morning, which Stiles always teases him about - like he's one to talk. Derek's surprised he's up this morning, actually; he knows that Stiles doesn't have to work until one and he usually values that extra sleeping time.

Derek slips his suit jacket on and heads for the kitchen, absently tying his tie. He has to pause in the doorway, though, and take in Stiles, who's wearing one of Derek's henleys and nothing else. It hangs halfway down Stiles' ass, the soft fabric following the curve of his back, hiding nothing. Stiles is leaning against the counter, gazing out the window into the backyard, a cup of coffee steaming in front of him, his brown hair tousled from sleep. Not for the first time, Derek has to stop and breathe slow and even, warm happiness flooding his chest. 

Stiles shifts and glances over his shoulder, a sleepy smile spreading over his face when he spots Derek. "Hey."

"Hey," Derek echoes. His eyes flicker toward the coffee maker, but there's no point in pretending that what he wants right now is the heat of Stiles' body, the soft touch of his hands. He crosses the kitchen and steps up beside Stiles, , bending to nuzzle against Stiles' jaw. 

"Mornin'," Stiles sighs, his voice heavy with content and slightly slurred with sleep. He turns into Derek, looping his arms around Derek's neck. The henley shifts as he lifts his arms, revealing the bulk of his cock hanging between his mole-spotted thighs. It stirs the fire in Derek's stomach, pushing a quiet, needy noise from his lips. Stiles tilts his head up to kiss Derek, his teeth catching at Derek's lip as he pulls away. Stiles laughs quietly and turns slightly, dropping one of his hands to open a drawer and root around inside. "That kind of morning, huh?"

"Yeah," Derek murmurs, watching Stiles lift a small bottle of lube from amongst the can openers and zip ties and other odds and ends in the drawer. They learned long ago to keep lube stashed all over the house and Derek is glad for that every time the need arises. 

"You do the honors," Stiles drawls lazily, pushing the bottle into Derek's hand so he can loop his arms back around Derek's neck and worry at his throat with his teeth. Derek doesn't mind; he likes opening up Stiles any way he can - with his mouth, with his fingers. The feeling and scent of him is visceral; it sends Derek's head spinning, his pulse pounding in his head.

Stiles hums into his neck as Derek slips a finger inside him, the noise breathy and satisfied. Derek likes the noise, wants to taste it, so he tilts his head, dipping to catch Stiles' mouth while he works another finger inside him. Stiles groans into Derek's mouth as Derek's fingers move inside him, biting down on Derek's lip, teeth catching at the corner of his mouth. He twists his fingers in Derek's shirt, tugging at his tie when it's gone on too long.

"Good enough?" Derek murmurs and Stiles nods, twisting around to lean forward against the counter, his cheeks flushed pink. Derek slips his hands around Stiles' hips, grinding up against him before stepping back to push his pants down. Stiles glances over his shoulder at Derek, wiggling his ass around impatiently. Derek slaps at it lightly, relishing Stiles' indignant noise, and reaches for the lube, slicking himself up in a few quick strokes. He wastes no time in pushing inside Stiles, though he goes slow, sliding a hand up and down Stiles' spine.

"Damn," Stiles says quietly, his back arching as Derek bottoms out, thighs flush against Stiles'. "God, that's good."

"Mm," Derek agrees. He pauses there, lets them both adjust. He bows his head, pressing his nose to the cloth stretched between Stiles' shoulder blades, inhaling the scent of THEM. Stiles laughs softly, bending to kiss the knuckles of the hand Derek's bracing against the counter.

"Love you, puppy," he breathes as Derek begins rolling his hips slowly. He moves like he's got all the time in the world, thrusting slow and sweet, mouth sucking a bruise into the crook of Stiles' neck. Stiles is unusually quiet under him, breathing fast, fingers curled over Derek's.

"Love you," Derek murmurs back. The world feels like molasses, the passing seconds tinged warm brown and moving languorously. Derek wouldn't have it any other way; he treasures these quiet moments more than anything. He enjoys himself, rolling his hips unceasingly, sliding his hands over Stiles' smooth skin, pushing up Stiles' shirt so he can suck bruises along his spine. 

"Jesus," Stiles mutters, bent flat over the counter, damp skin sticking to the laminate with his shirt - _Derek's_ shirt - pushed up to his armpits. "Jesus, _oh - "_ he sighs when Derek hooks a hand under one of his thighs, lifting Stiles' leg so he can drive in deeper. Stiles' long fingers curl around the wrist of the hand Derek's bracing himself with, squeezing tight. He laughs breathlessly. "Fuck, Der, it's a good thing I've been going to yoga."

"Your flexibility's served us well," Derek pants in agreement, tension building at the base of his spine. He holds off as long as he can, enjoying the slow ride too much, but there's only so much he can do before he's coming with a low groan, pressing Stiles to the counter with his whole body. For a moment all he can do is hold himself there, thighs shaking slightly while Stiles mouths at his jaw, before he realizes that Stiles hasn't come yet and he peels himself away, carefully slipping out of Stiles, who sighs. 

"Turn around," Derek tells him, kissing him hard before dropping to his knees. Stiles smiles languidly and turns, leaning back against the cabinets, elbows propped on the countertop behind him. He looks down at Derek fondly, ruffling a hand through his damp hair as Derek leans forward, taking him in without hesitation. If there's one thing Derek will never get enough of, it's how Stiles tastes - _god,_ how Derek loves licking the sweat from his body, even when Stiles squirms away and tells him he's gross. And down here, between his thighs, it's concentrated tenfold and laced with the scent of Derek himself, his come slipping down the backs of Stiles' legs. 

Stiles doesn't need much encouragement before he's coming, though Derek can tell he tries to hold off, his thighs tensing. Just like Derek, though, there's not stopping it and Stiles comes down Derek's throat with his hands tight in Derek's hair, a soft curse on his lips. Derek swallows and carefully licks him clean before sitting back on his heels and wiping at his mouth. He looks up at Stiles, who smiles sleepily down at him and says, "You should stay home today."

"You say that every time we do this," Derek reminds him, getting to his feet. Stiles steps in close, curling his fingers in the lapel's of Derek's jacket. 

"I know," he says, "but you're going to have to change, at the very least, and that's going to make you late, so you might as well stay home."

"I don't need to change," Derek retorts, but as he glances down at himself, he finds this isn't true. There's come on his jacket and shiny smears of lube on the thighs of his pants, and there's a cooling patch of sweat soaking through his undershirt at the hollow of his back. He looks thoughtfully at Stiles, who smiles slyly. "You know," he says, "I did wake up feeling a little under the weather."

Stiles' slick smile turns to a full-on grin. "I'm sorry to hear that," Stiles replies sympathetically. "Lucky for you, I know a good cure." He takes Derek's hand in his, leading them toward the bedroom. Derek calls into work before round two and Stiles laughs at his attempt at a sickly tone. He's still snorting when Derek gets a hand around him, eyes bright and mouth stretched in a wide grin. Derek's not a morning person, and neither is Stiles, but if finding it hard to wake means sleepy sex in their kitchen, he doesn't want to change. 


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is - this is a thing about Kate?! I wish we knew more about Kate because she's such an interesting character. This fic is all conjecture and wishful thinking, obviously. A couple of months ago [Amanda](the1001cranes.tumblr.com) and I developed a headcanon revolving around Allison actually being Kate's daughter - and also I have this headcanon that Victoria & Chris's marriage was arranged between hunter familes, all right?
> 
> Rating: Mature-ish  
> Applicable Tags: Kate POV, underage, character study

Kate's fifteen when she gets pregnant. She doesn't tell her father - not at first - because she has no intention of keeping it and he's lost in mourning her mother anyway. He'd just get upset, try to control her like he keeps trying to, even though she's supposed to be the leader now. Kate resents him for that, just a little, that he slid into Mom's spot before she could. Maybe that's why she keeps sneaking out of the house at night, going to the parties that the seniors from school throw. She doesn't want to hear the question "Who's the father?" because she doesn't know and doesn't particularly care. There were several boys - two in one night, once - she fucked without discrimination in bathrooms and bedrooms and up against trees in the cool night air, their clumsy hands fumbling with her clothes, rutting into her like the animals she hunts on the full moon. She has a reputation at school, is vaguely aware of the way people stare and whisper about her. Girls giggle in the bathroom, but Kate doesn't care because high school won't last forever, but her job and her family will always be there. 

Chris comes to visit the night before her abortion and he brings his frigid new wife. Victoria doesn't like Kate but then, she doesn't seem to like anyone. Chris is miserable about this. Dad looks irritated and tells him to suck it up. He doesn't seem to like Chris much either these days; he tells Kate that Chris is _soft_ , and looks disgusted when he says it. Kate's never been much of a romantic, but she can't blame Chris for wanting to get married to someone who loves him. Chris scowls while Victoria's in the bathroom and says that arranged marriages are fucking barbaric and Dad smacks him on the back of the head.

Later, Dad and Victoria retreat into his study - Kate is starting to suspect that Victoria's being groomed for position of the next matriarch and tries not to burst with rage - and she and Chris go outside and sit on a bench in the garden, which is weedy and overgrown now that Mom's not there to prune it back. Chris tells her the worst part, which is that Victoria can't have children and his eyes go all shiny when he says it. Kate looks at him pityingly, thinking he really _is_ soft but then, she must be too because he's her big brother and she wants him to be happy. So she looks up at the starry night sky for a moment before saying, "I can help you."

Dad doesn't talk to either them for nearly a year after he finds out Kate's pregnant, which is fine with both of them. Kate moves into Chris and Victoria's small house and bears out the rest of her pregnancy there, attending the local high school until she can't. Chris won't let her go hunting, which is infuriating, and Victoria's indifferent to her presence. She thinks she's going to go mad with boredom, but the look on her brother's face when he's holding the baby at the hospital is worth the months of utter monotony. Even Victoria's icy demeanor melts when she's holding the little girl. They name her Allison.

Kate leaves as soon as she's out of the hospital. Every maternal instinct in her screams not to go, but she knows that sticking around will just make things more difficult. Kate has a fast mind and quick tongue, but she's never been good at pretending. 

She moves back home and lives the last two years of high school like a ghost, existing only when she needs to. She doesn't see much of Chris, less of Victoria, even less of Allison, which is good; it's the best way. Chris doesn't mention her and Kate doesn't ask but she feels empty sometimes. She sleeps with a lot of guys but always with a condom now - she's not going to make the same mistake twice. 

Kate likes power and she likes sex. After she graduates high school she buys a motorcycle because she likes the way men look at her when she's on it, the way the blood rises in their faces and cocks, hormones fogging them in a nearly tangible cloud. She can have them twisted around her finger before she even smiles. At a bar one night she tells a man she'll suck his dick if he licks her boots. He does and she doesn't and the look on his face when she tells him there's no way in hell she's touching his dick makes her laugh and laugh and laugh. It's heady, intoxicating.

She rides around the country freelancing as a hunter, making contacts and building relationships with different hunter clans. There's always someone who needs help, and she's good at what she does, and if there's one thing that gets a man more hot and bothered than a woman on a motorcycle, it's a woman holding a gun. Kate fucks a lot of hunters - hell, she even fucks a couple of werewolves. An omega tells her she's beautiful and she feels absolutely nothing when she puts a bullet through his brain a couple hours later.

A couple of times a year she goes to visit Allison. It was hard at first, before Allison could talk, and she'd look up at Kate with her big soulful brown eyes and smile like she was the only person in the world who really cared about her. Kate saw her maybe once in that first year after she was born, but after she started roaming around the countryside, family started feeling more important. And it's easier now, too, that Allison can talk. Allison calls her "Aunt Kate," and hearing it feels right. She was never a mom and that's okay. 

Allison's nearly eight when Chris and Victoria make the decision to move back to California, some little town called Beacon Hills. Kate's never heard of it, but Chris tells her that they've been getting reports of discord amongst the local packs. Kate would go help, but she's embroiled in her own mess in the Tetons, helping a hunter family from Wyoming eliminate a feral pack. By the time she makes it out to California, the trouble has settled itself. Allison's glad to see her, though; Kate brought her a stuffed animal bison from Yellowstone and Allison wanders around hugging it the entire time Kate's there. 

Kate can't come back too often after that because it seems like the whole country's fallen into supernatural chaos, but she tries. Allison's ten when Kate comes to visit, and that's when she sees the Hale boy. She knows who the Hales are - Chris has kept excellent tabs on them - and she knows the boy killed his girlfriend a couple of years back. She knows the pack's done nothing about it, either, and that makes them all just as guilty as him. 

It's easy. It's so easy it's almost sad. The kid - his name's Derek or something; she wasn't paying much attention - isn't much of a werewolf. He's more like a puppy, soft and vulnerable, and it takes nothing to draw him in. His mother, the alpha - she's the one Kate needs to worry about, but she's busy preparing for the upcoming eclipse, completely unaware that a hunter's got her son in the back of a car, riding his dick like it's her job. It's not her job; the sex is unnecessary, but it'll make the betrayal so much worse. (And a couple of weeks later, after the fire, she finds out the kid's still alive and a delicious shudder runs down her spine. She hopes he wants revenge. She hopes he comes after her. Life's a game and she's ready.)

(Come and get her.)


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "The pack trying to finish a game of monopoly."  
>  **Rating:** General  
>  **Applicable Tags:** A lil cracky

_"Scott,"_ Derek said irritably, coming back from the kitchen with a glass of water. “I saw that.”

"Ooh, busted," Stiles sang as Scott pouted and moved his piece to jail. 

Lydia smirked triumphantly, but Derek pointed a finger at her and said, “You too.”

"I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here," Allison said hesitantly. She’d come in late and wasn’t playing, watching the board with her brow furrowed.

"Easy," Stiles said flippantly. "These are time-honored Stilinski house rules. There is a banker," he pointed at himself, "and a policeman," he pointed at Derek, "and players are allowed to make money in any way possible. If it’s not technically legal - like how Scott just tried to bribe Lydia into giving him Baltic Ave - you have to do it without getting caught."

"Sounds, um, interesting?" Allison offered. 

"It’s impossible," Derek snapped. 

"I don’t think we’ve ever finished a game," Scott added. "Usually the bank runs out of money first."

"I turn my back and I get robbed," Stiles told Allison mournfully. 

"This is  _not_ how normal people play!” Derek said angrily. 

"It wouldn’t be Monopoly without that one person who gets infuriated over a board game," Lydia said innocently, her comment directed toward the ceiling, definitely not at Derek, who glowered at her. 

"Oh yeah?" he challenged sourly. "Too bad. I’m a crooked cop and you’ll have to bribe _me_ if you ever want to get out of jail.”

Stiles cackled. “Now you’re getting into the spirit. Want me to hold onto that money, babe? 5% interest.”

Derek gave him a dark look. “I don’t trust my money with you. You keep getting  _robbed.”_

"Betrayal," Stiles gasped while everyone else laughed. "You want to play dirty, Hale?" He spread his hands over the piles of paper money in front of him. "I run this town and soon I’m gonna own  _everything_ and you can just try to stop me.”

"Oh my god, it’s like a really bad movie," Lydia whispered to Scott, who grinned. 

"It’s more like a train wreck," Allison said, her eyes wide. "I need popcorn. Anyone want some?"


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "Dereks afraid of thunderstorms(there was a storm rolling in the night of the fire idk?) but manages to hide it until eventually stiles figures it out  & is the one to get him through a particularly bad one, or anything along the lines of thunderstorm comforting?"  
>  **Rating:** General  
>  **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, Thunderstorms

It doesn’t rain much in Beacon Hills. It’s pretty dry throughout the year. They’ll get cold drizzle in the winter and a couple good storms during the summer. Thunderstorms are rare, so it takes a while for Stiles to notice that Derek’s got a problem, but the pieces fall into place eventually. There’s a picnic with the pack out in the preserve and thunder rumbles off in the distance and Stiles looks around and Derek is  _pale._  He tells Stiles something he ate disagreed with him and it’s not until a couple days later that it occurs to Stiles to wonder if werewolves can even get food poisoning but by then it’d be weird late to bring it up. 

A month later, Stiles is woken in the night by a flash of light, followed a couple seconds later by a long, low rumble of thunder. He blinks wearily at the wall for a moment, wondering why it’s so dark, until it occurs to him that there’s no light coming from the alarm clock on his dresser.  _Power must be out_ , he thinks sleepily, and shifts around, trying to get comfortable, but sleep’s elusive. It’s raining out, raindrops pattering quietly against the windows and it should be soothing, but it’s not. He feels unsettled, uneasy in his skin. Derek was short-temped and tense all day. They had an argument in the late afternoon over who’d forgotten to pay the cable bill, which had escalated into a larger argument about money. Neither of them had had very nice things to say and Stiles feels like shit now. 

He flips over, ready to wake Derek up and apologize, but his heart sinks when he finds the bed empty next to him. He could have sworn he felt Derek get into bed, but he’d been in that weird place between sleeping and waking. Maybe he’d just dreamed it. 

Outside, thunder booms, louder now and Stiles sits up, glancing out the rain-streaked window. Sleep is gone, replaced by the need to talk to Derek. He rises to his feet and leaves the dark bedroom, padding down the quiet hall. Derek’s not upstairs, so Stiles makes his way down the stars, treading carefully. He walks the circle of the living room, kitchen, dining room and den, dark spaces lit only by occasional flashes of lightning, but there’s no sign of Derek.

"Der?" Stiles calls quietly, standing by the back door. Sometimes Derek leaves when they fight - he goes to the woods and runs and runs and comes back looser, ready to talk. Tonight, though, his shoes still sit by the door, and his keys hang next to Stiles’ on the wall. When Stiles tries the door, the deadbolt’s still turned and he takes a step back, feeling worried now. "Derek?" he calls again, voice muted by a roll of thunder. There’s no response. Stiles’ heart sinks. He goes into the kitchen, but there’s no note on the counter, no messages on his phone. He doesn’t know what to do, so he does a lap of the house again, staring out the windows. 

The storm’s almost directly overhead now. He can feel it in his head, the low pressure making him roll his jaw in an effort to get his ears to pop. Thunder cracks, shaking the windows and Stiles hears it then; a faint, muffled noise of distress. Stiles swings his head and realizes he’s standing in front of the bathroom, which he’d given only a cursory glance. Now he steps inside, softly asking, “Der? You here?”

There’s a dark shape hunched in the bathtub, half-hidden behind the curtain. The next flash of lightning reveals it to be Derek, his knees drawn to his chest, hands clamped over his ears, eyes shut. 

"Der," Stiles repeats, kneeling down next to the tub. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Don’t like storms," Derek says, not opening his eyes. 

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Stiles asks. "You could have woken me up."

"We’re fighting," Derek mutters. 

"Okay, first of all, I’m sorry," Stiles says fiercely, leaning over the side of the tub so he can touch one of Derek’s knees. "And second of all, I care way more about you being okay than one of us being right. You understand?" Derek nods tightly and Stiles relaxes a little, patting him on the knee. "C’mon, scoot forward."

In the next flash of lightning, Stiles can see Derek hesitate, wincing at the bright light, but then he shifts, moving away from the back of the tub. Stiles nods and gets to his feet, stepping over the side of the tub to settle down behind Derek, gently looping his arms around Derek’s shoulders, pulling him back until he’s cradled against Stiles’ chest, head tucked under his chest. Derek’s shaking, body going tight with tension every time thunder peals overhead. The storm’s directly above them now, the thunder one long, continuous rumble, so loud Stiles can feel it in his chest, his bones buzzing. He can’t imagine how it must be for Derek, his sensitive hearing overwhelmed by noise. 

Stiles curls around Derek, chin hooked over his shoulder, listening to Derek’s not-quite even breathing. “It’s okay,” Stiles murmurs, pressing his nose into Derek’s cheek. “You’re safe, I promise.”

Derek makes a low noise, the one that means he doesn’t know to express what he’s feeling, turning to press his forehead against Stiles’s throat. “It’s okay,” Stiles repeats, combing his fingers through Derek’s hair. “We’re okay.”

His tailbone hurts because he’s sitting at an awkward angle, but he doesn’t move, scratching his fingernails across Derek’s scalp over and over as the storm rages over them. Derek whimpers once, and Stiles brings his arms up, puts his hands over Derek’s, like they’ll help keep out the sound any better.

Eventually the storm begins to subside, Stiles’ eyes drifting shut as Derek’s breathing calms, his body slowly relaxing. Stiles slips in and out of sleep, waking every time the thunder rumbles, though the sounds grow distant the more time passes. Derek’s warm, his weight comforting. Stiles doesn’t like waking up alone.

Derek wakes him some time later, carefully extricating himself from Stiles’ arms. “‘s it over?” Stiles asks sleepily.

"Yeah," Derek replies quietly, sitting up. Stiles can barely make out his shape in the dark room. He shifts like he’s going to stand and Stiles reaches out, grabbing at his shirt.

"I’m sorry," Stiles says. "For earlier."

"I am too," Derek replies, his hand finding Stiles’. Their fingers curl together, Derek’s grip strong and reassuring. "Let’s go to bed."

They make their way upstairs, Derek’s hands at Stiles’ hips to guide him through the dark house, and crawl into bed. There’s still thunder in the distance but it’s far off, fading, muted by the sound of the rain. Stiles curls onto his side, pressing his face into Derek’s shoulder. 

"So you’re afraid of thunderstorms, huh?" he asks softly.

"Shut up," Derek mutters.

"Hey, no," Stiles says, propping himself up on an elbow. He can’t really see Derek’s face, but what he can see looks unhappy. "I’m not trying to make fun of you. I just never knew."

Derek’s quiet for a long moment before his hand comes up to loop around Stiles’ neck and he says, “When I was a kid, we’d run with the family on the full moon, but I wasn’t allowed to leave my mom’s sight until I turned thirteen. The first moon, I - it was raining, which wasn’t a problem, but I got too far from the pack and a thunderstorm rolled in. The noise and the lightning - ” Derek pauses. “It’s - everything’s amplified a thousand times when you’re shifted. I was completely overwhelmed. I couldn’t hear, I could barely see. I couldn’t find my pack.”

"Jesus," Stiles says softly. "That sounds horrifying. What happened? Did they find you?"

"Eventually," Derek says ruefully. "Not before I ran straight into a tree and broke my nose."

"Oh, no," Stiles commiserates, half laughing out of horror. "I’m so sorry."

"It’s fine," Derek tells him softly, his fingers tapping gently against the back of Stiles’ neck. "I just can’t do storms now."

"I’m glad you told me," Stiles says, and drags himself on top of Derek, settling there like a security blanket. "You’re never going through another one alone, okay?"

Stiles doesn’t need to be able to see Derek to know he’s smiling now, that soft smile only Stiles gets to see. “You promise?” 

"I promise."


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "derek comes back to bh to find that stiles has been missing for a while (weeks maybe?). you're free to come up with why he's missing. derek starts searching for him with the others. maybe have a night where he's teaming up with the sheriff and scott? they find him ofc, because I'm a sucker for happy endings :p"  
>  **Rating:** General  
>  **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, Pre-slash, Nightmares
> 
>  
> 
> This is a really long one!

A month and three days after Derek left Beacon Hills, he came back. He’d meant to come back sooner, to be honest; all he’d wanted was some time to be alone, reset his mind. He’d thought about going to British Columbia and spending a week or two in the temperate rainforests. They’d gone as a family once, when he was a kid. Derek didn’t have a passport, which wasn’t really a problem, but he’d forgotten to factor in Cora, who finally admitted that she’d spent her missing years living on a remote ranch in Texas and wanted to go back. 

Texas was fine too, Derek decided, and he could still go to Canada if he really wanted to, so he pointed the Toyota to the southeast and they headed for Texas. One week, he told himself firmly as they drove up a dusty dirt road fifty miles from the Mexican border. One week and then he needed to get back to Beacon Hills. He didn’t feel especially great about the way he’d left things in town. He hadn’t seen Peter since before the eclipse, for one, and that worried him.

One week, though, turned into two, then three, then a month. As it turned out, the ranch was owned and ran by a large pack - nearly a hundred werewolves and humans known together as the Alvarado pack - and he was slightly bewildered to find himself welcomed with open arms. It’d been a long, long time since he’d spent so much time around so many wolves - not ones he wasn’t fighting, anyway - and away from Beacon Hills, he felt whole again. Cora was different too; she lost her cold distance, laughing as she showed him around the ranch, guided him through the stables. She made him pet the warm noses of horses and bumped her shoulder against his while they shucked corn for dinner. 

He dragged his feet over leaving, though it helped when the alpha of the Alvarado pack, a tiny old woman with dark skin and steel-colored hair, patted him on the arm and told him he was always welcome. Derek didn’t need Beacon Hills any longer, he decided. He’d go back, make sure everything was settled, and then he’d leave for good. That had been the plan the last time, when it was just him and Laura, but the city had a new alpha in Scott and he’d earned it, unlike Derek, who’d just taken it.

The drive took two days and Derek took the coastal route because he could, driving due west from Texas until he reached the coast, then driving north until he headed inland toward Redding. It was dark when he got into town, almost eleven, and he got a room in a motel at the edge of town. He could have gone to the loft, but the dark, ruined expanse of it didn’t appeal to him. He couldn’t keep sleeping where people had died. The motel room smelled like mold and ancient cigarette smoke, but the sheets were clean and it wasn’t an abandoned railway depot or burnt shell of a house, so he couldn’t complain. Also, the motel got HBO so he _really_ couldn’t complain; he and Cora had spent two weeks watching _Game of Thrones_ every evening.

In the morning, Derek showered and went to a diner for breakfast. He watched the people around him talk and eat. Everything felt normal, which was a relief. There was no foreboding sense of things about to go horribly, terribly wrong, which he was one hundred percent okay with. Derek could do with no more blood on his hands. 

After he ate, he stood in line at the register waiting to pay for his meal, hands in his pockets as he gazed absently at the community board behind the cashier’s head. It was covered in flyers announcing church potlucks, intramural softball leagues, lost cats, and salsa dance lessons at the local senior center. The cashier bent to grab a roll of coins from under the counter and Derek’s eyes fell to a poster previously hidden behind her head. 

 _MISSING!_ it yelled in bold red text, and underneath it was a picture of Stiles Stilinski.Derek stared at it, his mouth falling open. Stiles was missing? What the fuck had happened while he was gone? He wondered why no one had bothered to tell him until he remembered that he’d ditched his phone the same day he left Beacon Hills. Still. It wasn’t like he disliked Stiles or Scott or any of the others. He would have helped.

"Sir?" 

A voice cut through his thoughts and he blinked, finding the cashier waving impatiently at him. Derek stepped forward and handed her his bill and a twenty. As she rang him out, Derek gestured at the poster and asked, “The sheriff’s kid’s missing?”

The woman glanced over her shoulder and nodded. “Poor thing. The sheriff’s devastated.”

 _He would be_ , Derek thought, avoiding looking up at Stiles’ smiling face again. You’d have to be blind not to see how much the two loved each other. “How long’s he been gone?”

"Two weeks," the woman replied, handing him back his change. "Have a nice day."

Derek nodded absently and sat in his car for a few minutes while he wondered what to do. He wasn’t sure if this had anything to do with anything that had happened a month ago, but he needed to help somehow. Stiles, for all that he was loud and irritating and never completely serious, had saved him several times. Derek wouldn’t go so far as to say they were friends, but he liked Stiles, and he couldn’t say that about very many people.

He ended up driving over to Scott’s house, but no one was home. Derek stood leaning against his car, staring up at the McCall house, his teeth clenched. He thought about going to the Stilinski house, but even though the sheriff was aware of the werewolf issue, the last time Derek spoke to him was the time he’d been arrested under suspicion of murdering Laura. He didn’t think the sheriff thought very highly of him. 

As Derek stood on the street, though, a car pulled into the driveway. Derek watched Scott climb out of the back, while Scott’s mom and a man Derek didn’t recognize got out of the front. They were arguing, sniping petty comments at each other - though it mostly sounded like Scott and Melissa against the man. Derek sighed softly and stepped forward, deliberately twisting his heel against the concrete to make some noise. Scott’s head snapped around to him and his eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “Derek?”

"Who?" the man asked, swinging around to look at Derek. He frowned. "That’s Derek Hale? The one who was dating Jennifer Blake?"

Derek glared at him, clenching his jaw. He’d been trying to avoid thinking about Jennifer because every time he did, it felt like he was drowning. 

"You left town right after she disappeared," the man said, sticking his hands in his pockets. "And Stiles disappeared two weeks later."

"Shut up, Dad," Scott said angrily. "Derek didn’t have anything to do with either of them." Scott took a step forward, turning his body in a way that clearly said _I’m not interested in talking to you._ He looked at Derek instead, his mouth twisting miserably. “Derek, Stiles - “

"I heard," Derek cut him off. He glanced at the man who was apparently Scott’s father, then back at Scott. "How can I help?"

"We were just going to go over to the Stilinski house," Melissa said. "Scott, why don’t you ride over with Derek and get him up to speed, and I’ll take your father and maybe abandon him in the woods somewhere."

"Sounds like a plan," Scott said with an irritable glance at his dad, who scoffed. Derek nodded and headed back to his car, Scott on his heels. As they drove off down the street, Scott said, "This probably wasn’t what you were expecting to come back to, huh?"

"Just tell me what happened," Derek replied shortly.

Scott sighed, turning his head to look out the window. “I don’t know, man. I told you how we had to become sacrifices and we spent all that time in that room. After that night, Stiles, he…he wasn’t the same.”

"What do you mean?" Derek asked sharply. "How?"

"Deaton told us that there’d be consequences," Scott said heavily. "That there’d be a darkness around our hearts. I didn’t think it was that bad, honestly. I had some weird dreams, but that was it. Allison too. But Stiles…it got to him. He kept having these waking dreams. We were in math class and he was hallucinating, I guess, and he flipped out. The sheriff said he came home a couple of times and found Stiles sleep walking. One time he was standing in the middle of the street, dead asleep." Scott shook his head, looking miserable. "Stiles wouldn’t even admit it was happening. We didn’t know what to do."

"And then he disappeared?"

Scott nodded unhappily. “Yeah. The sheriff went to go wake him up one morning and he was gone. No one’s seen him since.”

Derek hissed between his teeth. “What do you think happened?”

"I think he went somewhere in his sleep," Scott told him. "The sheriff’s afraid he might have gotten hit by a car or walked off a cliff or something."

Derek drove quietly for a long moment, glaring at the road in front of the car. “Why do you think he was so affected when you weren’t?” he finally asked. 

Scott shrugged. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I’ve got this alpha thing to focus on and Isaac’s been staying at the house so he’s always around. Allison’s got her dad and I mean, Stiles does too, but his dad works a lot so it’s just him most of the time. And he thinks a lot, you know? About everything.” Scott hesitated before continuing, “This whole darkness thing, it - it capitalizes on your fears, you know? I had a lot of bad dreams about my mom getting killed and Matt killing people again, and Allison’s been dreaming about Kate.”

Derek gritted his teeth at the mention of Kate Argent, but asked, “What was Stiles dreaming about?”

"He wouldn’t tell me," Scott admitted, "but it was probably about his mom."

"She’s…dead," Derek said slowly, and Scott nodded. 

"Yeah. Don’t ever tell him I told you, but he told me once that he thinks he killed her."

Derek looked at Scott sharply as he pulled up in front of the Stilinski house. Neither of them made any move to get out of the car. “Why?”

Scott shrugged again. “I don’t know. We met in middle school and she died before that. He doesn’t really talk about her.”

"Could he have killed her?"

Scott frowned. “No. She died of cancer.” 

Melissa appeared next to the car, tapping on the window with her knuckles, and they both jumped. Scott smiled sheepishly. “Some werewolves we are.”

Derek didn’t respond, climbing out the car and following Melissa up the walkway to the house. There were cars parked all along the street and he could hear the buzz of conversation from inside the house. It occurred to him, as he followed Melissa inside, that he’d never been on the first floor of Stilinski house. This was only the second time he’d ever been inside. 

The living room had been made into a sort of command center, all the furniture pushed aside in favor of a couple long tables covered in papers. There were a lot of people standing around; Derek saw Chris Argent talking to a sheriff’s deputy. He turned his head as the sheriff came from the kitchen. He looked exhausted, stinking of weariness and misery. He smiled when he saw Melissa and Scott, though his eyes narrowed when he spotted Derek. 

"John," Melissa said quickly. "You know Derek. He’s come to help."

The sheriff looked him up and down, then sighed. “Good of you,” he said tiredly. Derek could hear the despair in his voice; he sounded like he’d already given up. “I appreciate it.”

Derek nodded and the sheriff turned toward the living room, raising his voice over the chatter. “All right, we’re searching the east half of the preserve today. Grab your maps and we’ll head to the high school to meet the rest of the volunteers.”

Derek looked over at Scott. “They’re searching the preserve?”

"Second time," Scott said unhappily. "We just want to find _something.”_ Derek hears what he doesn’t say. _Even if it’s a body._  

"You’ve been using your senses?" Derek asked quietly over the sound of people grabbing their coats and taking maps off the tables in the living room. 

"Of course I have," Scott said angrily. "I can’t pick up anything. His scent’s everywhere in this town."

"Do you mind if I give it a try?" Derek inquired mildly. 

"You think you can do any better?" Scott retorted irritably. Derek raised his eyebrows and Scott subsided, looking abashed. "Sorry. It’s just - you’re not even an alpha now, and - "

"Maybe not," Derek agreed, "but I’ve been a werewolf my entire life. You’ve been one for less than a year."

Scott nodded as people filed past them out the front door. “All right, fair enough. What do you need?”

Derek nodded toward the stairs. “Let me see his room.”

Scott nodded once more, leaning over to tell his mom, “Hey, we’ll meet you at the preserve, all right? Derek’s going to see if he can pick up anything upstairs.”

Melissa nodded and left them to tell the sheriff, who gave Derek a thoughtful look before he followed the crowd out of the house. Scott led Derek upstairs and down the hall to Stiles’ room, but stepped aside before the doorway, gesturing that Derek should go in alone. Derek paused before he went in the room, thoughtful. 

"Why’s your father in town?" he asked Scott, who made a disgruntled face. 

"He’s in the FBI," Scott told him. "He came to town to investigate all the sacrifices."

"Hm," Derek said, and stepped into the room. It had changed since the last time Derek had been in there. Most of the band posters had come off the walls, replaced with articles about all the sacrifices and disappearances around town, connections made with pieces of string. It looked like the work of a mad man. The sheets were pulled back on the bed, like someone had just risen. There were clothes on the floor, a half-empty cup of water on the nightstand. 

Derek closed his eyes. He breathed in deeply, slowly, inhaling the scents of the room - dust and sweat and the smell of Stiles. He breathed out. There was something else there, so faint he almost missed it, soft and sweet and floral. He walked the room, searching for the source of the scent, but it seemed to only exist in the air. He followed it out the door, brushing past Scott, who raised his eyebrows and followed him down the stairs to the front door. 

"You got something?" Scott asked.

"Maybe," Derek said cautiously. He opened the front door, swinging his head around, but the scent went so faint he could barely trace it and he heaved a frustrated sigh. "I need to shift to follow it better. I’ll come back tonight."

"All right," Scott agreed. "You want to meet back here later?"

Derek shook his head. “No. Your scent will throw me off.”

Scott nodded, his mouth twisting unhappily. “Do you think he’s still alive?” he asked after a long pause, his voice low and saturated with misery. 

Derek shrugged noncommittally. He didn’t dare speculate, not with everything else that had ever gone wrong in his life. 

Scott smiled bitterly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Well,” he sighed, “welcome back.”

-

Derek returned to the Stilinski house around ten, when darkness had well and truly set. The house sat silent and dark, the sheriff not home. Derek started on the porch, scenting the air until he caught that faint sweet scent mixed with Stiles’. He took a careful look around before rolling his shoulders and shifting.

The night became ten times as intense as his senses became more powerful, the world an open book waiting to be read. The scent he was tracking was still faint, diluted by the myriad scents of the outside world, but he’d be able to track it without trouble in his beta form. 

Derek set off across the lawn and trotted off down the street. He moved carefully, wary of being seen, but he moved with urgency at the same time. He didn’t want to believe Stiles was dead, but two weeks was a long time. If he’d been hurt or was trapped somewhere without food or water, it was likely he was dead. Derek thought - _hoped -_ that if the reason for his disappearance was more supernatural, he might still be alive. 

The scent trail led him around the edge of town. Derek kept to the trees where he could, wondering how Stiles made it all this way without being noticed. He supposed it hinged on the circumstances - had Stiles sleepwalked, his eyes closed, dressed for the night? Or had he been awake, leaving under his own power or under duress? 

He ended up walking in a huge half-circle, ending up on the opposite side of town as the Stilinski house in a small residential neighborhood. The houses were smaller here, older, a little more run down. Many of them were vacant, windows boarded up. Derek picked up his pace as the scent grew stronger, trotting down the middle of the road, caution thrown to the wind. 

Derek found himself in front of a small yellow house, its white trim cracked and peeling. A _For Sale_ sign sat in the yard, but the house didn’t look like it had been lived in for a while. The scent was strong here; it pulled him up the walkway and onto the front stoop. The front door was locked, but Derek was certain he could hear a heart beating inside, and a deadbolt wasn’t going to stop him. He threw his shoulder against the door and the frame cracked, the door swinging open under his weight. He glanced around to make sure no one had heard, and stepped inside. 

Inside, the house was dusty and empty, the sound of his feet on the wood floor echoing off the walls. The scent he’d been tracking was everywhere, sweet and faintly floral, soaked into the very core of the house. The house smelled familiar and it took Derek a moment to realize he’d just come from a house that smelled the same - the Stilinskis had lived here at some point or another, infusing their house with their very being. 

He could hear a heartbeat, loud now, and followed it up the stairs to the second story, into a room on the left. The room was empty except for Stiles, who lay on the floor twisted on his side, one of his arms curled under his head. He was pale and shaking, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, but he was alive. 

Derek exhaled in relief, stepping into the room to kneel down next to him. “Stiles,” he said, gently shaking Stiles by the shoulder. “Stiles, wake up.”

Stiles’ breath came a little quicker, but he did not wake. Derek frowned. He couldn’t smell any magic in the room, just that sweet floral scent - which could have been a spell, but he had the feeling it was more a lingering perfume, again thinking of Stiles’ mother. He shook Stiles once more, a little harder, but still Stiles did not stir. 

Derek bared his teeth irritably. He’d have to carry Stiles then, take him to the sheriff - or Deaton, maybe. He couldn’t call anyone; he still didn’t have a cell phone. Unless… Derek looked down at Stiles thoughtfully, remembering how Stiles had woken him that night at the hospital. Unless he just needed a slightly stronger shove, as it were. 

Derek picked up Stiles’ hand, feeling his pulse race under his fingertips. A good sign, Derek hoped, twisting Stiles’ arm so his inner wrist was exposed. Derek opened his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as his movements faltered, inhaling deeply as his lips brushed against Stiles’ skin. He’d never really taken the time to dissect Stiles’ scent; usually he smelled like sweat and too much nervous energy and Derek had never wanted to delve in further. Here, though, the smell of him gathered clear at his pulse point and he smelled like - like wheat and warm grass and laughter. Derek leaned forward almost unconsciously, breathing in deeply. He wanted to chase that scent, smother himself in it. He - 

Derek’s eyes shot open and he wobbled, almost overbalancing and falling down on top of Stiles. “Jesus,” he hissed out loud, his cheeks flushing red in the darkness. What the hell was wrong with him? He pushed all thoughts out of his brain and bit down on the thin skin of Stiles’ wrist, a little harder than he meant to, but still not enough to break the skin. Stiles gasped under him, jerking his arm out of Derek’s grip and Derek let him go, moving back a foot to give him room. 

It took Stiles a moment to open his eyes and focus on Derek, a frown crossing his face when he did. “Derek?” he asked, his voice hoarse and bewildered. “What are you doing in my room?”

"This isn’t your room," Derek told him calmly, though his cheeks still burned. "You’ve been missing for two weeks."

Stiles looked around with a vague frown. “You’re joking.”

"I’m not," Derek assured him. "How do you feel?"

Stiles tried to push himself up into a sitting position but couldn’t seem to manage it. He swallowed, looking a little panicky. “Like a noodle.”

Derek sighed. His car was back at the Stilinski house on the other side of town, but he didn’t dare leave Stiles alone to go get it, not if there was a chance he might disappear again. “Guess I’ll have to carry you,” he said.

"Don’t sound so excited," Stiles said tiredly. Derek rolled his eyes but shifted around, managing to get Stiles onto his back. He stood slowly, hands under Stiles’ thighs. "Hi-yo, Silver," Stiles mumbled, snorting against the back of Derek’s neck. 

Derek sighed again, moving for the hall. “Do you recognize this place?” he asked. “It smells like your family.”

Stiles was quiet as they moved downstairs. Derek almost thought he’d fallen back asleep before he quietly offered, “We used to live here before my mom died.”

"Were you dreaming about her?" Derek asked, reaching for the front door. 

"Yeah," Stiles said softly. 

Derek paused, then stepped outside. Stiles shivered in the night air and Derek said, “You need to talk to someone about this.”

"That’s rich, coming from you," Stiles replied bitterly. 

"I’ve learned from my mistakes," Derek said evenly, not rising to the fight. "Don’t look to me as an example."

They were silent for a few yards, Derek reaching the sidewalk and turning right, in toward town. He figured the easiest thing to do would be to bring Stiles to the sheriff’s station, which was only a couple of blocks away. 

"Where’d you go?" Stiles asked eventually. 

"Texas."

Stiles huffed out a laugh. “What, did you and Cora become cowboys?”

"We were living on a ranch," Derek shrugged. "Maybe."

"Who _are_ you?” Stiles asked, sounding amazed. Derek didn’t reply. 

They got another block before Derek said, “Tell me about your dreams.”

Stiles didn’t speak for almost half a block but Derek could tell he was awake by the way his fingers tapped absently against Derek’s sternum. “They were bad,” he said finally. “They started out with me being in the hospital with her, the way it was when I was younger. I hated going there. I hated seeing her wasting away like that. I dreamt about that every night, sitting in the hospital and listening to that stupid heart rate monitor beep.”

He exhaled heavily, taking a deep breath before continuing, “After that I - I started hearing things. Feeling things. When I was awake, not when I was asleep. I woke up and thought I saw her standing in my room. She smiled at me. I had to start sleeping on the couch because I’d see her every night, every morning.”

Stiles paused for a long moment. “People talked to me, in the dreams. I’d be sitting there with my mom and there’d be my dad or Scott talking to me, telling me I killed her, and my mom looking at me going ‘Why, why?’” He stopped talking abruptly. Derek could smell the salt of tears on him, but didn’t say anything, letting him get out whatever he wanted to say. “I’d try to run and I’d never get anywhere, but I kept waking up in other places. Dad pulled me out of the middle of the street one night.”

Stiles fell silent for long enough that Derek guessed he’d finished speaking so he said, “Scott said your mom died of cancer. Why would you think that’s your fault?”

"Because it was," Stiles mumbled, his arms tightening around Derek’s shoulders. "At the end, she slipped into a coma and they had her hooked up to all these machines trying to keep her alive. My dad was trying to figure out what to do and one night I was there and I pulled the plug out of the wall. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t watch her suffer any more. When everyone came running, I plugged it back in, but it was enough. She died that night."

"That’s not your fault," Derek said automatically. "You were a kid; you can’t blame yourself for wanting to help your mom. I would have done the same."

"No you wouldn’t have," Stiles muttered. 

"I would have, and I did," Derek snapped. "I know Peter told you what I did to Paige."

"Right," Stiles said quietly. 

The lights of the police station were in sight when Stiles said, “Thanks.”

"For what?" Derek asked irritably. 

"For finding me," Stiles said. "And listening."

Derek relaxed slightly. “You don’t have to thank me.”

"Whatever," Stiles retorted. "Thanks for carrying me."

"Hodor," Derek replied stoically. 

Stiles cackled with delight, his laughter bright and startling. He dug his heels into Derek’s thighs and said, “Dude, seriously?”

"The ranch had HBO," Derek said solemnly, turning into the station parking lot. 

"Oh my god," Stiles sighed against his neck and Derek tried to ignore the way his skin rose up in goosebumps at the warmth in Stiles’ breath. "Kiss me; I must be dreaming again."

"It’s not a dream," Derek muttered, his ears burning, and he forestalled any more conversation by banging through the front doors at the station. 

The deputy behind the counter looked up at them in shock before she smiled widely. “Stiles!” she exclaimed, then turned her head to bellow, “Sheriff! _Sheriff!”_

The sheriff came bolting out of his office and Derek had to turn his head away at the expression that came over the man’s face when he spotted his son. “Stiles,” he said weakly. 

"Aw, Jesus, Dad," Stiles mumbled shakily, and Derek helped him slip from his back. He couldn’t exactly stand; Derek had to keep a hand hooked under his armpit to keep him upright. The sheriff seemed happy to take all of his weight, pulling him into a tight bear hug. Derek took a step back, then turned away, his role here done. Before he could get too far, though, he heard the sheriff say, "Hale."

Derek looked over his shoulder to find both the sheriff and Stiles watching him. “Sir?”

"I owe you," the sheriff told him. 

"You don’t owe me anything," Derek replied stiffly.

The sheriff shook his head. “I don’t think you understand how much I do. You’re back in town for a while?”

Derek nodded. 

"Good," the sheriff said. "We’ll have you over for dinner sometime."

"Hey," Stiles added, as Derek turned to leave again. "I’m glad you came back."

Derek looked at Stiles’ exhausted face and the honesty burning in his brown eyes, and managed to dredge up a faint smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "Phone sex while Derek is away. If with assplay or with dirty-talk about fucking, then bottom!Derel, pwease."  
>  **Rating:** Explicit  
>  **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, bottom!Derek, phone sex, fingering, dirty talk

Derek’s digging through his pockets trying to find the key card to his hotel room when his phone rings. He gives up on the key for a moment and reaches for his phone instead, smiling faintly when he sees the name on the display. 

"Hey," he says quietly into the receiver, cradling his phone between his chin and shoulder so he can begin the search through his pockets again.

"Hey," Stiles’ voice echoes back to him, a little faint and crackly; the signal’s not great in the hall. "You got a moment to chat?"

"Yeah," Derek says, finally curling his fingers around the plastic card. He swipes it through the lock and waits for the door to beep before he turns the handle. "We’re done for the evening. I just got into my room. Scott’s still downstairs."

Stiles laughs. “Are you guys enjoying yourselves?”

Derek kicks off his shoes and heads over to the window to close the curtains, pausing a moment to look out over the city. The streets are empty and quiet, pools of orange light illuminating the asphalt. It’s a stark contrast to the world downstairs, where all the meeting rooms of the hotel were bright and crowded with people. “I guess,” Derek says grudgingly. “Scott certainly is. He’s popular with women.”

Stiles laughs again. “You sound jealous.”

"I’m not jealous," Derek mutters, sitting on the edge of the bed and loosening his tie. "It’s distracting. He’s not learning anything."

"Maybe you should take a page out of his book," Stiles chides gently. "Make some friends."

"I _have_ been making friends,” Derek protests as he unbuttons his shirt. He pauses, then says, “You’ll like this. I met an alpha from Orlando who knew my mom and she said we’re welcome to come stay any time.”

"Oooh, babe, I take it back," Stiles croons. "When we go to Universal Studios, you’re coming on _all_ the roller coasters with me.” Derek scowls and Stiles cackles. “I can hear you frowning. I’m just kidding; I’ll make Isaac come with me. It’s always funny to see him cry.”

Derek sighs. “What are you up to?”

"Just got back from Dad’s birthday dinner," Stiles replies. Derek can hear him shifting around - it sounds like he’s in bed. "He was bummed you couldn’t be there. I think at this point he loves you more than he loves me."

"I _am_ the one who painted his entire house last year,” Derek points out haughtily. “ _And_ I know how to talk about baseball.”

"Well, one of us has to keep the couch warm," Stiles retorts moodily. He sighs heavily. "The house is too quiet when you’re gone."

Derek echoes his sigh, laying back on the bed to unbuckle his belt and shimmy out of his pants. He’s been gone a week already - four days spent visiting Cora in Phoenix before heading north to the convention in Denver - and it’s going to be another four days before he’s back in Beacon Hills. The trip’s been enjoyable; seeing Cora was fun and he’s met a lot of wolves here in the city, learned a lot of things, but it’s not home and it’s not Stiles. “I miss you,” he breathes.

"Miss you too," Stiles echoes softly. "I’m still bitter about not being allowed to come."

"Some of these old packs can be conservative," Derek tells him. "They don’t think humans have a place among werewolves."

"So let me come," Stiles grouses. "I’ll show ‘em it can work."

"And start a war?" Derek says dryly. "Let’s save that for next year."

"I’m not that contrary," Stiles says, but Derek can hear the grin in his voice. 

"I’ll make it up to you when I get home," Derek promises. 

"Will you?" Stiles’ tone shifts, dropping into what’s almost a purr. "It’s been boring here without you. I’ve been jerking off alone all week. Makes me feel like a teenager again."

"You’re only twenty-three," Derek tells him. He rubs a hand over the front of his briefs, palming his dick through the cotton. He’s glad he insisted he and Scott get separate rooms - Scott was all for sharing, but Derek’s heard him snore on enough pack outings to know he’d never get to sleep. He’s not even sure that Scott’s on the same floor as him, and that’s fine because no matter how many times Scott’s walked in on him and Stiles, it’s still awkward. "You got through college fine."

"Yeah, but that was before we were living together," Stiles replies. Derek can hear him moving around and then he makes that quiet, choked-off noise he makes whenever his dick’s touched. They’ve been together six years and Derek still doesn’t get tired of hearing it. Stiles adds petulantly, "You’re supposed to _be_ here.”

"Soon," Derek promises, licking his palm and sliding a hand into his underwear, sighing when his fingers curl around his cock. "Are you going to be waiting for me?"

"Course I am," Stiles breathes. He laughs, voice hitching every so often. "I’ll tie a bow around my dick and you can - you can take it off with your teeth."

"Mm," Derek hums in agreement. "I miss your dick. I miss the sounds you make when I’m blowing you."

Stiles makes a high, involuntary noise that Derek feels in his spine, his cock twitching in his hand. He moves, hooking his fingers in the elastic waistband of his underwear and pulling them down his thighs until he can kick them to the floor. Derek strokes at his cock with long, steady pulls, clenching his jaw against a moan when Stiles says, “God, I just want to fuck you right now, Der. I want to get you on your hands and knees and fuck you into the mattress.”

"Fuck," Derek groans. There’s sweat building in the small of his back and between his legs and he can smell the thickness of his arousal but not Stiles’ and it makes him ache. He abandons his dick, bringing two fingers to his mouth to slick them with spit before spreading his legs and pressing inside himself. It burns and it’s not enough, not nearly enough, not _Stiles_ , but it’s enough to make his back arch and his heels dig into the mattress. 

"Are you fucking yourself, puppy?" Stiles asks hoarsely. Derek can hear him jerking off, the slick sound of skin on skin. "Are you - _hn, fuck_ \- are you fingering yourself and wishing it was me?”

"Fuck, _yes,”_ Derek rasps, thrusting against his hand. His cock taps against his stomach with every jerk of his hips, smearing precome in his happy trail. 

"I’ll fuck you slow," Stiles promises. "I’ll eat you out until you’re begging to get fucked and then I’ll fuck you until you cry. You want that?"

Derek whines, feet digging into the mattress as he tries to find the leverage to get deeper inside. “Y-yeah.”

"You’re so good," Stiles pants and Derek closes his eyes, imagining he can feel Stiles’ hot breath against his neck, the slap of his thighs against Derek’s ass as he hisses, "I’m gonna come on your ass. I want to see my jizz rolling down your legs." Derek groans low, almost gone, and Stiles says, "Come for me, babe, I want to hear you."

He gets a hand back on his dick, jerking off with no finesse now, hurrying toward release. It rolls through his body, curling his toes against the mattress and lifting his back off the sheets. He comes with a choked-off groan, come splattering white against his stomach. 

"Fuck," Stiles says weakly, the word petering off into a sharp exhale of air as he follows Derek over the edge. It’s strange not being able to see his face when he comes, but Derek can picture it clear enough in his mind; the way Stiles’ cheeks splotch red with color, the way his lips part, the way his entire body goes loose and easy. The times after they’ve both come are the best, when they end up in a cooling pile of entangled limbs, smelling so strongly of each other that they become one scent. He misses not being there now. 

"Hey," Stiles says after a long moment, his voice soft. "You still with me?"

"Yeah," Derek hums. "Four days."

"Four days," Stiles agrees. "Then we’ll do this for real."

Derek smiles faintly. “I’m looking forward to it.”


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "Can you write about snow and winter and things because I'm not getting any of that down south here? I need hot cocoa, snow, blankets, smores, and fireplace snuggling (Sterek?)."  
>  **Rating:** General  
>  **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, snow day, fluff

Derek wakes on his stomach, arms curled under his pillow. The room is warm, the light soft and grey, and he stretches languidly. Stiles is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning toward him on one arm, and the expression on his face is so serene and loving it makes Derek’s stomach twist. Stiles smiles at Derek and leans in to kiss the tip of his nose. 

"Hey," Stiles says softly. He smells like cold air, fresh and crisp. "You gotta get up. I crashed the Jeep into a snowbank."

 _"What,"_ Derek groans, the tranquility shattered. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

"C’monnnn," Stiles wheedles, flopping down on top of him. "I thought I’d do something nice for you so I went into town to get some of those cinnamon buns you like and it’s _snowing_ and I went off the road a little.”

"Stiles," Derek sighs, pushing Stiles off him and rolling out of bed. "Don’t you know how to drive?"

"The roads are icy and I don’t have winter tires!" Stiles protests. "Like your car’s any better."

Derek grunts as he pulls on a pair of jeans, which he thinks is an appropriate response, especially because he’d been pretty sure he was about to have to lazy snow day sex. 

Stiles coos, “Babe, don’t be like that,” and wraps his arms around Derek from behind, his hands slipping down the front of Derek’s pants. 

 _"Jesus!"_ Derek bellows, jerking away from him. “Your hands are like fucking ice!” 

"I had to walk home and I didn’t have gloves!" Stiles retorts. "God, you need to grow a pair."

"You just froze them off," Derek snaps, yanking on a henley. "Where’s your stupid car, then?"

They pull on boots and jackets and gloves and walk the half mile down the road to where Stiles’ Jeep is half in the ditch. With Derek pushing at the front and Stiles inside putting the car in reverse, they soon have the car out of the ditch. Derek puts maybe a little too much energy into pushing and the Jeep shoots back across the road, almost landing in the ditch on the _other_ side of the road. Stiles is giggling when Derek climbs into the car, though he stops at the sour look Derek gives him. 

They drive back to the house without any further incidents and Stiles gets out of the car, giving Derek a sad look over his shoulder. Derek bites back a smile and hops out of the Jeep, following Stiles up the path to the house. Just as they reach the stairs to the front porch, Derek ducks down and grabs a handful of snow, which he shoves down the back of Stiles’ jacket. Stiles howls and dances away, almost crashing into the snow. He whips around when Derek laughs, a look of utter betrayal on his face. 

 _"You,"_ he accuses. 

"Me," Derek agrees, and bends to scoop up more snow. Stiles yelps and takes off around the side of the house, his feet kicking up clumps of wet snow. Derek grins as he comes around the back; Stiles’ taken refuge behind the shed and Derek can hear him moving around, packing up snow. He ducks the snowballs Stiles flings at him easily, even snatching one out of the air and flinging it back. It hits Stiles right in the face and while he’s wiping snow out of his eyes, Derek tackles him, bringing them both thudding down into the snow. 

"Give up?" Derek asks. 

"Never," Stiles says valiantly, attempting to buck him off. Derek just settles down heavier on top of him, immovable, and Stiles’ head thumps back against the snow. "Fine."

Derek looks down at him, at his cheeks flushed patchy red, and bends forward to kiss him. Stiles’ lips are cold but Derek doesn’t care. He loves every part of Stiles, even the negative and he tells Stiles so when they break apart.

"I know," Stiles says smugly, and smashes a handful of snow against the back of Derek’s head. 

"You little shit," Derek growls and Stiles cackles.

"I’m _your_ little shit, remember?” he reminds Derek, who ducks his head to hide his grin. Stiles pats Derek on the back and says, “I love you too, but can we go inside? There’s water running down my ass crack.”

Derek snorts and lets Stiles up. They head inside, where the house is warm, and strip out of their clothes which are, by this time, soaked through. “Go get us some clothes,” Stiles demands, and Derek takes a moment to watch him head for the kitchen, his bare flesh tinged pink from the cold. 

By the time Derek comes back downstairs with a couple pairs of sweatpants and old t-shirts he can hear Stiles moving around in the kitchen, pulling mugs from the cupboard and humming to himself, so he pulls on a pair of sweats and sinks into the couch, head turned to watch the snow falling outside. It’s peaceful, almost hypnotic - he almost doesn’t notice when Stiles comes into the room and sinks down next to him, pressing a warm mug that smells of chocolate into his hands. He does twist though, looping an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles shifts in close, tucking his head under Derek’s chin and they sit quiet for a long time, sipping their hot chocolate and watching the snow fall. 


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "derek cleaning stiles' bruises after a fight"  
>  **Rating:** General  
>  **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, Hurt/Comfort

The drive back to Derek’s loft is silent. Stiles has his eyes closed, forehead pressed to the cool glass of the car window, trying not to think about the deep ache that’s pulsing down his side. He’s got his hand clamped over his elbow and his fingers feel sticky, wet, but he doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t have the energy. 

Derek doesn’t speak. He’s angry. Stiles can feel his anger; he’s almost vibrating with it, jaw clenched so hard his teeth could crack. Stiles wants to reach over, curl his fingers over Derek’s, but he doesn’t think that would be well-received at the moment so he keeps still. It’s usually a battle with himself, his body fighting to keep up with the racing thoughts of his mind, but it’s easy now. He’s so tired. 

"Stiles," Derek says sharply, and Stiles jolts upright, sending pain scattering down his side. They’re in the parking lot of Derek’s building. Stiles didn’t even notice the car stop moving. Derek heaves an irritated sigh and gets out of the car, coming around to Stiles’ side to jerk the door open while Stiles is still taking off his seatbelt. 

"I can do it myself," Stiles says quietly. Usually he’d be snapping, angrily flapping Derek away with his hands, but tonight it’s more rote than anything. Derek doesn’t say anything, but his hand’s there to catch Stiles when his legs wobble as he climbs from the car and Stiles is too tired to even pretend to be annoyed. He leans into Derek instead, his warm bulk comfortingly solid, and closes his eyes as they ride the elevator to the top floor. The gentle swaying of the car is soothing; he wants to ask Derek if they can ride it all night, up and down and up, but the doors open with a soft noise and Derek pushes him forward before he can even wrap his brain around the words. 

He lets himself be guided into the loft and into the bathroom, where Derek pushes him to sit on the toilet. Scott wanted him to go the hospital and Stiles insisted he was all right. He kind of regrets it now, but he trusts Derek and waits for his assessment. If Derek tells him he needs to go to the hospital, he’ll go. Derek’s not like Scott, who worries too much. It’s not like Derek worries too little, but he knows how much Stiles can take, even if he’s not happy about it. 

He’s _not_ happy about it, Stiles thinks, watching with heavy eyes as Derek dig through the cupboard under the sink. His anger disappeared somewhere between the parking lot and the loft, but Stiles can tell by the set of his shoulders and tightness of his jaw that he’s unhappy. It’s in the way he’s not talking, the way his brow furrows when he takes Stiles’ hand in his, gently turning his knuckles toward the ceiling. The skin’s torn and flushed angry red around the edges, weeping blood, and Stiles tries not to wince as Derek dabs at it with iodine. His whole lower arm’s the same; when Stiles hit the wall, his arm took most of the impact. His elbow’s the worst, though, most of the skin scraped off. Derek makes an angry noise when he sees it. 

"I’m - I’m sorry," Stiles says. He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for - for getting hurt, or for making Derek worry, but Derek’s brow furrows at the words.

"It’s not your fault," he replies shortly, gently twisting Stiles’ arm so he can press antiseptic to Stiles’ elbow. Stiles hisses involuntarily, clenching his fist, and Derek pauses, waiting for him to relax before continuing. 

"I don’t like this," Stiles tells Derek quietly, reaching out with his uninjured hand, brushing his bloodstained fingers against the creases in Derek’s brow. Derek pauses to look up at him, the furrows deepening. He washed his hands before attending to Stiles, but there’s still blood splattered on his forearms, splashed across the front of his shirt. It freckles his face and neck, pools in the hollows of his throat. He looks like he’s stepped out of a nightmare.

Stiles doesn’t know what he expects. They’re long past the point where Derek tries to stop him from fighting; they both know they have strengths where the other has weaknesses, how they work as a team, how everyone works as a pack. They’re stronger together but Stiles still worries, every once in a while, when there’s a bad battle and they come home hurt. He worries that someday Derek’s going to try to stop him from fighting and it’s going to be the end of them. _I’m tired,_ he thinks.

What he gets now is silence. Derek cleans his wounds and carefully wraps his arm in gauze without a word, his hands steady and skilled. When he’s done, he sets the gauze aside and then leans forward, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist, hiding his face against Stiles’ thighs. Stiles pauses, surprised, then softens, threading his uninjured fingers through Derek’s soft black hair. 

"I love you," Derek mumbles and his hands slip under Stiles’ shirt, palms pressed flat against his back, seeking the warm comfort of his skin. 

Stiles folds, curving his spine to curl his arms around Derek. He presses his forehead to Derek’s back and breathes him in. He smells like blood and flash powder, but underneath is the smell of _Derek_ , crisp and rich like autumn air. Stiles breathes him in and when he exhales he says, “I’m tired, Der.” What he means is that he’s sick of getting hurt and seeing Derek hurt and their friends getting hurt, and he’s sick of long nights in the woods, in the hospital, at the sheriff’s station. But his eyes burn and he clenches them shut and he doesn’t speak because he doesn’t trust his voice.

But Derek, because he knows Stiles better than anyone by now, better than Scott, better than his dad, says, “I know,” and Stiles knows he gets it. And it hurts when Derek says, “I am too,” because Stiles doesn’t want Derek to hurt, doesn’t ever want that. He knows it’s unrealistic, especially with the lives they’re living, but, his mom once told him, that’s what people in love do - they protect each other. They dream big.

Derek straightens, sits back on his heels, and Stiles reads the exhaustion in his face, bone-deep. “Let’s get some rest,” Derek says quietly, running a hand over Stiles’ head. His hair’s shorn short again - he hasn’t worn it that way since high school, but it’s harder to get grabbed with a buzzcut, easier to wash out blood. 

The loft’s dark, lit with a faint orange light from the city lights outside the big window. Stiles blinks wearily as he sinks into bed, as Derek pulls himself on top of him like a heavy security blanket. For a while it’s quiet, just the sound of them breathing. Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders and Derek presses his face into the curve of Stiles’ neck, his breath hot and wet against Stiles’ skin. 

"My family has a cabin," Derek says after a while. "In the Rockies."

"Yeah?"

Derek lifts himself, leans on his elbows. Stiles follows the glint of his eyes, rubbing absent fingers along the swells and dips of his spine. “Let’s go for a while,” he says. “Would you like that?”

"Yeah," Stiles breathes, smiling for the first time in what feels like days. "Yeah, I would."

He watches the corners of Derek’s eyes crinkle as he almost smiles, lowering himself back down on top of Stiles. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, he thinks. Dream big.


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, y'all!
> 
>  **Prompt:** "since it is the holiday season, traditional everything fluff time: write your version of Sterek Christmas morning! Does Stiles gets up and start jumping on the bed a crazy o'clock in the morning? Does Derek get sneaky with the present hiding and middle of the night stocking stuffing?" and "fluffiest sterek christmas eve/christmas day ever"  
>  **Rating:** General  
>  **Applicable Tags** Derek POV, future fic, kid!fic, Christmas, blowjobs (ish)

Derek wakes to Stiles climbing on top of him, sitting on Derek’s thighs while he hums _The First Noel_ to himself. Derek’s hands move automatically to steady him, blinking blearily as he surfaces from sleep. 

"Happy birthday," Stiles says cheerfully, and Derek narrows his eyes. Stiles is wearing brown felt antlers. They’ve got bells on the tips that jingle when he moves. 

"How old are you?" Derek asks, his fingers curling against Stiles’ hips. 

"That’s a question I should be asking you," Stiles retorts, nudging his knees against Derek’s ribs. "Unless you’ve reached the point in your life where you’ve decided to become willfully ignorant of how old you are."

"I’m not _that_ old,” Derek scowls, and Stiles smiles softly. 

"No frowning on your birthday," he says, leaning forward to bracket Derek’s head with his arms. Stiles tries to kiss him, but Derek jerks his head to the side, thinning his lips.

"I can’t take you seriously with those antlers."

"Where’s your holiday spirit?" Stiles pouts, but he pulls off the headband, tossing his antlers to the floor with a jingle. Only then does Derek allow himself to be kissed, curling his arms around Stiles’ waist to pull them flush together. Stiles hums again, a wordless noise of approval, and sinks his weight fully against Derek, warm and solid. Derek’s just getting hard, absently shifting his hips against Stiles’ while Stiles fists a hand in his hair and sucks a bruise onto his collarbone, when there’s a pattering of fists against the bedroom door. 

Fee’s voice floats through the air toward them, muffled by the wood. “Dad! Daaaaddy! I waited like you said!”

Stiles lifts his head with a sigh. Derek says grudgingly, “Ten years ago we wouldn’t have been interrupted.”

Stiles pokes him in the side as he climbs off him. “Ten years ago, we would have slept ‘til noon and then we would have screwed each other senseless.” Derek sighs wistfully, propping himself up on his elbows to watch Stiles pad over to the door. He swings it open to reveal Fiona, who beams hopefully up at him. 

"Presents?" she asks, dancing around excitedly. 

"Not yet," Stiles tells her. "But I’ll tell you what. If you promise not to open any presents, you can go see what’s in your stocking and Dad and I will be down in a little while, all right?"

"Okay!" she agrees and bolts down the hallway. Derek can hear her clattering downstairs as Stiles turns around to grin at him. "Bought us a little bit of time, anyway. What do you want to do?"

"Shower?" Derek asks hopefully, and Stiles’ grin widens. 

"Anything for you, birthday boy."

Stiles blows him in the shower, his soft mouth and clever hands just as quick as always to bring Derek to release. He grins up at Derek after he comes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and asks, “Does that one count as a birthday or Christmas present?”

Derek pulls Stiles to his feet with a faint smile, reaching a hand between them to return the favor. “I’ll take that one as a birthday present.”

"Excellent," Stiles mutters, his eyes fluttering shut as his hips jerk up into Derek’s fist. "Expect another one later today."

Derek snorts. He snorts again when they get out of the shower and Stiles puts the antlers back on before heading downstairs. Stiles winks at him, deliberately shaking his head so the bells jingle. “C’mon, babe, dredge up a little Christmas spirit. I know you’ve got some somewhere deep in that black heart of yours.”

Derek flips him off and Stiles laughs the whole way downstairs. Derek can hear him talking to Fiona as he heads to Max’s room and he smiles when he sees their son, who’s blinking sleepily up at the ceiling, though he lifts his arms when he sees Derek. 

"Hey," Derek murmurs, lifting him from the crib. "Merry Christmas."

Max makes a sleepy noise around his pacifier, curling his tiny arms around Derek’s neck as Derek carries him down to the living room. Stiles is on the couch, pretending to be surprised as Fee shows him all the toys she’s gotten in her stocking. “Hey, Max!” he says, delightedly accepting his weight as Derek passes him over. “You ready to open some presents, buddy?” Max giggles.

"Dad!" Fiona admonishes, clambering into Derek’s lap. "You said Dad gets to open his birthday presents first! Happy birthday, Dad!" she adds, pressing a kiss to Derek’s cheek. 

"Thanks, Fee," Derek says, smoothing a hand over her long brown hair. "Dad can wait, though. Why don’t you go choose a gift for everyone to open?"

"Okay!" She scrambles off his lap and throws herself down in front of the tree, rooting excitedly through the pile of presents. Stiles slouches against him as they watch her, and Derek curls an arm around his shoulders, pressing his nose to Stiles’ temple so he can breathe in the smell of him. 

"Hey, babycakes," Stiles calls to Fiona. "Can you grab that red and gold box for your dad, please?"

Fiona obliges, skipping over to press the small box into Derek’s hand before heading back to the tree. Derek lets Max tear at the paper, then has to pull it out of his hands before he crams it into his mouth. Stiles laughs and digs his fingers into Max’s sides to make him giggle again. 

"C’mon, Der, open that present," Stiles says cheerfully over the sound of Fiona ripping open a present from Lydia to find an entire closet’s worth of dress-up clothes. "I’m gonna be as old as you before you get it open."

Derek gives him a dark look and uses a claw to cut away the tape holding the box closed. He pulls away the tissue paper surrounding his gift and pauses, his throat suddenly tight.

"I was doing some research at the newspaper archive when I found it," Stiles says softly, curling his hand around Derek’s wrist. "Danny touched it up for me."

Derek swallows, reaching out to touch the photo of Laura with an unsteady hand. It’s from a high school basketball game and she’s in uniform and looking directly at the camera, her face flushed and determined. “Thank you,” he says quietly, not trusting his voice for more. 

"Merry Christmas, Der," Stiles replies softly, his eyes bright. "And happy birthday." 


	57. Chapter 57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "Because of some sort of Supernatural crisis Stiles (and the gang) are not able to attend prom so Derek makes something for him, like IDK a fluffy thing like with lights and music and they slow dance a bit and share a kiss :3"  
>  **Rating:** General  
>  **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, prom, fluff, so much sap i could make a gallon of maple syrup

Stiles is just pulling on the jacket to his tux when there’s a pounding on the front door. 

"Thought you said you didn’t have a date," Dad says from where he’s leaning on the arm of the couch.

"I don’t," Stiles scowls as he heads for the door. He yanks it open to reveal Scott, looking flushed and out of breath, his bow tie askew. "Hey," Stiles says, his eyebrows rising. "Thought you were taking Lydia to prom. Or did you come to your senses and realize I’m the one you’ve always loved?"

Whatever’s going on, Scott spares him a weak grin. “C’mon, dude, you know you’re my one and only,” he says, and then the grin fades from his face. “Seriously, though, we gotta go; there’s an pissed-off warlock uprooting the forest.”

Stiles sighs and grabs his keys. As he heads out the door, Dad shouts after him, “Hey, be careful with that tux! I don’t want to lose the deposit!”

-

Three hours later finds the warlock dealt with (some kind of feud with a dryad - who knew?) and the gang’s worse for wear. Stiles’ tux has scorch marks all down the front and Scott’s covered in dirt. Lydia’s hair long ago fell unpinned from her elegant updo, and Allison lost all the sequins off the left side of her dress. Isaac’s the worst off - he got hit by a spell that half turned him into a tree before Stiles could reverse it, and he’s still picking twigs out of his curls. Even Derek’s looking worn, his latest henley ripped down the back. 

"Guess that’s that," Stiles says morosely, picking at the holes in his tux. It’s a cheap one; the fibers have melted into something like plastic. Still, Dad’s going to be pissed. 

They’re all standing around in a clearing, letting their heart rates return to normal before heading back to the cars. Lydia’s holding her high heels in one hand, grimacing as she examines the nails on her other hand. Allison plucks idly at her bowstring; every time she shifts, more sequins fall off her dress, flaring in the moonlight as they fall to the leaves. Derek looks around at them, his brow furrowing. 

"Why are you all dressed up?"

"Prom night," Scott says cheerfully from next to Lydia. He sobers up when she elbows him in the stomach. "We’ve missed it now." 

"Made it through high school alive and missed our only reward," Stiles sighs. 

Derek’s brow furrows further. “You think prom’s a reward?”

"Well," Isaac says, gesturing vaguely. A couple of leaves fall from his shoulders. "It’s supposed to be the culminating high school experience, I guess." 

"I never went to prom," Derek says, a little mutinously. 

"Yeah, and look how you turned out," Stiles says. Derek looks outraged when everyone nods in agreement. 

"Really," he says coldly, and when no one says anything else, he glowers and continues, "Fine. If it’s so important to you, come to the loft tomorrow evening." And before anyone can speak, Derek stalks off into the darkness, shoulders tense. 

Isaac stares at him, his mouth quirking into a grin. “Is he going to throw us a prom?”

"He totally is," Allison laughs. 

Derek does. They all gather outside the loft at seven the next evening and no one says a word when everyone else shows up in their formal attire (Stiles’ dad was _pissed_ about the tux, but there’s not much you can do to hide holes burnt right through the sleeves). Derek slides the door open with a glower and steps aside without a word. 

"Oh," Lydia says softly as they step inside. _Oh_ is right. Derek’s hung Christmas lights from the rafters, filling the loft with a soft glow. His desk’s got an actual tablecloth on it and it’s covered in food, and there’s music playing from god knows where. Stiles sneaks at glance over his shoulder at Derek who, now that they’re all distracted looking around, looks distinctly pleased. Stiles grins to himself; he knows that for all his gruffness, Derek likes nothing better than making other people happy. He’s always doing sneaky nice things for people - changing the oil in the Jeep, retrieving Allison’s lost arrows, bringing Mrs. McCall dinner at the hospital when Scott can’t - and he hates getting thanked for it. 

They gather around the desk, eating snacks - Derek’s gone all out; he got the _nice_ brand of frozen taquitos, even - and it’s a little awkward in the way that dances always start out, even though they’ve known each other for years now, even though they’ve all seen each other naked or nearly so by now, covered in blood and dirt and god knows what else, but still. Dancing’s a whole ‘nother ballgame. 

"Never fear," Stiles say, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out a bottle of tequila he filched from his dad’s liquor cabinet. 

"Hey," Derek says sourly, looking like he just bit into a lemon. "You’re underage - "

"Prom tradition?" Isaac offers guiltily, pulling several mini bottles of vodka out of his suit pockets. Derek glares as everyone else ashamedly reveals their own stashes - Allison’s got a fifth of whiskey in her purse, Scott’s got a flask of what smells like scotch. Lydia’s got a bottle of champagne _and_ a small bottle full of the liquid wolfsbane that’ll allow the werewolves to get a little loopy. 

"Fine," Derek hisses, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "But none of you are driving home tonight."

"Such a gracious host," Lydia beams as they all do shots. 

It’s not long before there’s dancing - once the alcohol starts flowing and Allison finds Derek’s iPod and turns up the music. Stiles fucking loves dancing so he doesn’t care that he’s the only one without a date - it doesn’t matter for the fast songs anyway, when they all dance together. He’s glad prom got ruined because this better, just being with his friends, jumping and writhing around in the middle of Derek’s loft.

He can’t help the way his eyes keep sliding over to Derek, their surly chaperone, who spends most of his time leaning against the wall watching them, arms folded over his chest. He refuses to dance even though Isaac and Scott try to pull him in several times. Stiles wonders how Derek would dance; he’s so graceful normally, but Stiles has a hard time seeing him loosen up. 

During a slow song, while the other four pair up, Stiles heads for the fire escape. His skin’s damp, his dress shirt sticking to the curve of his back, the slightly melted jacket of his tuxedo long abandoned. He was always that kid who sweated too much in gym class and the cool May air feels amazing, the metal fire escape reassuringly solid under his feet. There’s a faint rustle of clothing behind him and he doesn’t have to turn to know that Derek’s stepped out onto the stairs. Stiles kind of wishes he wouldn’t.

The thing is, Stiles has a thing for Derek. It took a while to build, took time to get past Derek’s rough exterior and bad temper and learn about who he really was. It’s made worse by the fact that his relationship with Derek has always differed from Derek’s relationship with everyone else - like the fact that Derek wouldn’t come out here for anyone else. He’s got a camaraderie with Derek that the others don’t and the way that Derek actually seems to _like_ him every once in a while confuses his teenage sense, especially times like now when he’s buzzed with alcohol. 

Derek doesn’t say anything, just leans on the railing next to him - not close, but close enough that Stiles can feel the unnatural high heat of his body. Stiles waits a couple seconds, focusing on his sights on the cityscape before them before he says, “This is a really nice thing you’re doing.”

Derek scowls, like he always does when someone tries to be grateful, and replies, “It’s nothing special.”

"No, it is," Stiles insists, because Derek’s gone all out this time, he really has, and even if he hates hearing it, Stiles has to let him know he’s appreciated. Derek looks away and Stiles makes an exasperated noise, punching him on the arm for good measure. Derek swings back around to look at him and Stiles pauses at the expression on his face - not angry, not irritated, just…fond and soft. Stiles isn’t sure he’s ever seen Derek look so happy. Derek’s pale eyes flicker down to Stiles’ mouth and Stiles _knows_ he must be dreaming when Derek realizes he’s been caught looking and his head snaps away. 

"Er," Stiles croaks, "okay," and he stumbles back inside, heart pounding in his chest. He’s not crazy, right? That did just happen. "God," he mutters, and takes another shot to fortify himself before he throws himself back into dancing. 

It seems like hours later before he finds himself sitting again, this time on the spiral stairs inside the loft. Another slow song’s on. Scott’s not taking it seriously; he and Lydia are waltzing around the edge of the room like something out of a Disney movie, and Stiles can see Lydia muffling her laughter against Scott’s neck. Isaac and Allison are wrapped up in some kind of dreamy shuffle; they’re definitely not a school dance appropriate distance apart. 

Derek appears next to the staircase and says, “One song left.”

"Yeah?" Stiles asks, stifling a yawn. He’s drunk and tired and ready to crash on the couch, though he’s pretty sure, as the single one, he’s going to end up on the floor. "Did you hand build an entire three-hour playlist?"

"Yes," Derek says defensively. 

Stiles laughs and says, “You’re amazing.”

Derek looks at him, surprise on his face, and Stiles stares back, his insides twisting. Somewhere beyond them, the song ends and a new one begins, one last slow song. He feels himself get to his feet and it’s like he’s watching from somewhere far, far away when he hears himself say, “Dance with me.”

Derek doesn’t say anything at all, just looks at him with big, shocked eyes. Stiles swallows and leans against the rail and says, “This is your prom too. You should enjoy yourself.” He steps off the stairs, takes a step toward where the others are dancing, and then another, but he keeps his eyes on Derek, his heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Derek doesn’t move, just keeps staring at him. Go sway by himself, maybe, or throw himself over the fire escape before he dies of embarrassment. 

He takes another step, hope fading with every inch. Scott and Lydia whirl between them; Scott’s humming _Beauty and the Beast_ over the music. Derek’s eyes follow them for a moment and then he sets his jaw and stalks forward, curling his fingers around Stiles’ wrist to tug them into the center of the room. Heat flares on Stiles where Derek’s touching him; his hands shift to Stiles’ waist and Stiles hears him exhale sharply. Stiles is having trouble catching his own breath but he raises his arms, slips them around Derek’s neck. 

They don’t say a word to each other, shifting awkwardly. Stiles is worried that Derek’s going to give up, leave him standing here, and he doesn’t know if that would be better or worse than being completely snubbed in the first place. To his surprise, though, Derek seems to be relaxing; the muscle under Stiles’ fingertips is unbunching and he tilts his head, nose brushing against Stiles’ cheekbone. It’s - it’s enough that Stiles feels brave enough to shuffle forward the few inches it takes to close the expanse of air between them, moving forward until their chests brush. Derek’s fingers tense and then relax against his hips, hands sliding to a more natural position at the small of Stiles’ back. Stiles breathes out, his skin tingling at the feeling of Derek’ warm breath against his neck. 

They dance - if you can call it that - a slow, weaving circle, round and round. Scott catches Stiles’ eye and grins at him and Stiles hides his own grin against Derek’s shoulder, curling his fingers against the soft hair at the base of Derek’s neck. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, inhaling the smell of Derek, soft like leather even though he’s not wearing his jacket, faintly spicy. The song’s already slowing down, coming to an end, and Stiles wishes he’d asked Derek earlier, even though he’s pretty sure Derek would have said no. He’s like that, Stiles thinks, lips parting as Derek tilts his head, dragging his lips against Stiles’ neck. Private. Doesn’t like to share. 

That’s fine, but tonight’s prom and it’s a show if anything, even if there’s only six of them there. He can steal this, he thinks, and turns his head to meet Derek’s lips, mouth curving up at the way Derek exhales shakily, his hands tightening around Stiles. Derek kisses slow at first, cautious like he’s afraid Stiles is going to pull away, like Stiles wasn’t the one who initiated the kiss, but then he grows bolder, kisses like he’s dying and Stiles is dying with him, fingers digging into his skin, pulling him impossibly closer. 

The last notes of the song are dying away when they pull apart. Derek stares at Stiles like he’s never seen him before, his hands loosening but not slipping away. There’s laughter around them, Scott asking, “Good prom?” and Isaac somewhere saying, “Best prom.” 

Derek tilts his head to one side, questioning, and Stiles laughs, pressing their foreheads together as he agrees, “Best prom.”


	58. Chapter 58

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "Could you do one where Derek gets drugged or something and it makes him all happy and nice? This has been done a thousand times before, but I can never get sick of these fics. :)"
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, magic fairy dust, happy!Derek, pre-slash

"Deaton says it’ll wear off," Scott says when he opens the door to his house. 

"What will?" Stiles asks suspiciously. The last time he saw Derek, he was unconscious and covered in a fine red powder and Isaac and Scott were cramming him into the back of Allison’s car. It’s been almost two hours since then; he and Lydia had been left to deal with the faerie, who absolutely refused to deal with werewolves or hunters. Stiles had dropped Lydia off at her house because she’d insisted on taking a shower after.

"He’s, uh," Scott gestures vaguely. "Well. It’s kinda like he’s drunk. If he could get drunk." As if on cue, a bunch of people in the living room break into laughter and Stiles raises his eyebrows. 

"Was that _Derek?”_

Scott grins faintly. “Yeah, dude. He’s kinda fun.”

"Fun," Stiles repeats, grinning wryly. "I’ve gotta see this."

Scott’s grin widens and he steps back, holding the door open so Stiles can step inside. Derek’s sandwiched on the couch between Isaac and Allison and just that is odd enough - Derek’s never seemed overly fond of being in close proximity with people, especially not Allison - but even weirder is the wide grin on his face when he turns to watch Scott and Stiles walk into the room. Stiles stares; he’s _never_ seen Derek smile like that, except that time at the sheriff’s station when he was schmoozing up that deputy. This smile seems genuine though, as does the cheerful note in Derek’s voice when he slurs, “Heyyyy, Stiles!” 

"Hey dude," Stiles replies, jamming his hands in his pockets. "You look stoned."

Derek’s face goes solemn. “Fairy dust,” he says seriously, and then breaks the illusion by snorting with laughter. Allison slaps a hand over her mouth, looking like she’s going to burst. 

"See?" Scott says to Stiles, grinning broadly. "Kinda awesome, huh?"

_"Seriously,"_ Stiles grins. “I say we take advantage of this.”

Scott nods, claps his hands together. “All right!” he says cheerfully. “I say we get some food. Anyone want pizza?”

Derek throws up his arms and Isaac falls over the edge of the couch laughing. 

It’s maybe the most fun Stiles has ever had hanging out with the pack. They teach Derek how to play Super Smash Brothers and once he gets the hang of it he’s _unstoppable_ and he laughs the entire time. He looks good when he laughs, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. Stiles can’t stop watching him; happiness is a good look on Derek.

When the food arrives, Derek tries to pay for it, fumbling with his wallet and shoving bills into Scott’s hand. Scott blinks down at the crumpled hundred-dollar-bills in his hands and asks, “Why do you have so much money?”

Derek looks down at the bills, seems as perplexed as Scott. “It’s good to be prepared,” he says eventually, then eats an entire meat-lover’s pizza all by himself. Stiles has the feeling that, in that moment, if any of them had asked Derek for money, he would have happily shoved a couple hundred dollars into their hands. 

They decide to watch a movie and give Derek first pick because he apparently hasn’t seen any movies since like 2006 and to everyone’s surprise he chooses _Wall-E._ They all watch him - Isaac and Scott make a silent bet on how long they think it’s going to take him to cry - but he doesn’t cry, just watches enraptured, mouth slightly open. 

"How long’s this going to last?" Stiles hisses at Scott after the movie ends and Derek disappears to go to the bathroom. 

"A couple more hours, I think," Scott replies, looking a little sad about it. "Deaton said he’ll pass out eventually and when he wakes up, he should be fine."

"I kind of don’t want it to stop," Allison admits. "He’s _nice.”_

"He told me I’m his favorite beta," Isaac says.

"You’re his only beta," Stiles points out. 

Derek comes back, a faint, pleased smile on his face, and they stop talking and stick in _The Avengers._ Allison has to leave halfway through and Derek hugs her; she leaves the house with a surprised look on her face. Derek, in fact, doesn’t hesitate to touch any of them; he ruffles Isaac’s hair with a fond look on his face, high-fives Scott enthusiastically, bumps his knee against Stiles’ as they sit on the couch. 

Eventually Scott migrates to the floor, where he stretches out with a pillow, and Isaac’s in the kitchen making a massive bag of popcorn when Stiles notices Derek’s starting to look tired, his eyelids drooping. 

"You gonna crash, dude?" he asks, nudging Derek with his elbow. 

Derek looks at him, blinking slowly. “I like you,” he says sleepily and Stiles goes still. His eyes flicker down to where Scott’s laying on the floor and Scott looks at him and then away quickly. 

"Do you?" Stiles asks, trying to keep his voice even. Derek nods, his eyes fluttering shut. After a moment, his body slumps against Stiles’ side. Stiles pokes at him but Derek doesn’t wake. By the time Isaac comes back into the room, massive bowl of popcorn in his arms, Derek’s stretched out on the couch, his head in Stiles’ lap, and Stiles has his arms bent stiffly at the elbows, hands hovering in the air. 

"That’s new," Isaac says, taking one look at the two of them on the couch and opting to join Scott on the floor. 

"Help me," Stiles hisses. 

"Nah," Scott says, and tells Isaac conversationally, "Derek confessed his love for Stiles."

"He did not!" Stiles snaps, his cheeks flushing red. 

"Well, he said ‘I like you,’ which is just about the same thing," Scott replies. 

Stiles glowers at the two of them and then down at Derek. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, or the fact that Derek just told Stiles he likes him. Stiles likes Derek even when he’s not high on fairy dust but normal Derek’s never given him so much as a hint that he feels the same. What’s he supposed to do? Is Derek even going to remember tonight? That might make things easier (and worse) on all of them. 

Stiles finally settles one hand on the armrest of the couch, the other resting on Derek’s chest, and when his hand touches Derek’s shirt, Derek makes a soft noise, the lines on his face smoothing out. He shifts onto his side, face turned toward Stiles’ stomach.

Suddenly, this isn’t funny any more. This isn’t Derek - or if it is, it’s a side of Derek he keeps hidden intentionally and for them to have all seen it seems unfair to Derek and almost a betrayal, somehow. He almost hates that this has happened, that they’ve seen a taste of Derek happy. He wants Derek not to remember, even if it means forgetting his confession to Stiles.

Stiles falls asleep with the weight of Derek heavy and warm on his legs, his hand curled around the back of Derek’s neck. He wakes around midnight with a stiff neck and Derek’s gone. Scott and Isaac are still sprawled on the floor, some bad SyFy movie playing on the television. 

"Where’s Derek?" Stiles asks sleepily. 

"Left a while ago," Isaac says. 

"He back to normal?"

"Seemed like it," Scott replies, yawning. 

"Did he remember what happened?" Stiles asks, his stomach twisting. He rubs at his legs, still feeling Derek’s weight. 

"Didn’t say," Scott says.

"Oh." Stiles tries not to pay any attention to the sinking in his stomach, but it’s impossible to ignore. 

-

Derek _does_ remember. No one talks about that night, but Derek’s avoiding Stiles. He won’t make eye contact, and when they have pack meetings, he makes sure they’re never alone. Stiles would be okay with that - he could handle it - but he doesn’t want Derek to hide the _other_ things that happened that night. They know that Derek can smile and laugh and have a good time; Stiles doesn’t want him to hide that just because he wants that night to never have happened.  

So Stiles goes over to Derek’s apartment unannounced, barges in before Derek can stop him. Stiles thinks he was probably taking a nap - the couch is right in the sun and Derek’s hair is flat on one side - but he’s already on his feet, teeth bared, when Stiles bangs the door open. 

"Put those fangs away," Stiles says unconcernedly. "I’m not here to fight with you."

Derek snaps his teeth angrily. “Why _are_ you here?”

"Because you’re avoiding me," Stiles says, folding his arms over his chest. "I know you remember what you said."

Derek’s mouth goes thin and he jerks his head away, glaring at the wall. 

"Dude," Stiles says, softening. "Look. Everyone had a good time the other night. I know you didn’t mean to say what you said to me, and if you want we can forget you ever said it, but don’t make yourself a fun martyr. You should be able to enjoy yourself with us once in a while. Preferably when you’re not high as a kite."

Derek’s brow lowers further, but he doesn’t meet Stiles’ eyes when he asks, “What if I don’t want to forget?”

Stiles blinks. “What do you mean?”

Derek exhales through his teeth. “If I don’t want to forget,” he says, and his head swings back around to look at Stiles, a fierce expression on his face. “What would you do?”

Stiles opens his mouth, then shuts it. After a moment he says, voice slightly strangled, “I might ask you if you want to get dinner sometime.”

Derek stares at him for a long moment and Stiles stares back, his palms growing sweaty as the seconds tick by and Derek says nothing. Just when he’s sure Derek’s about to tell him to forget about it after all, he shifts his weight and says, “I like Indian.”

It takes Stiles’s brain a moment to catch up, but when it does he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. “Luckily for you,” he tells Derek, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I know the perfect place. Tomorrow at seven?”

The smile Derek gives him is answer enough.


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "so I'm feeling Stiles/Parrish! maybe something where the Sheriff spends a lot of time talking about his capable and awesome new Deputy to the point that Stiles starts to think his dad has a bit of man-crush, when REALLY his dad is more like 'what a nice guy. WHAT A NICE DATE-ABLE GUY. HINT HINT.'"
> 
> **PAIRING:** Stiles/Parrish
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, obliviousness

"I think my dad’s having a midlife crisis of the sexual variety," Stiles says, throwing himself down on the couch at Scott’s house.

Scott makes a face. “Dude, I don’t want to hear about that. He’s like my dad.”

"He _is_  my dad,” Stiles points out bitterly. “And you’re my best friend. Who _else_  am I going to share this with?”

Scott winces. “Fine, fine. What’s going on?”

Stiles sighs, kicking his heels. “Ever since I came home for the summer, he’s been talking about this deputy they just hired. He brings him up at least twice a day, seriously. He’s dependable, he’s awesome, he’s handsome, yadda yadda yadda.”

Scott blinks. “Wait. The deputy’s a dude?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, hence the sexual crisis. I mean, obviously I wouldn’t care who he dated, but it’s just kind of weird to me, considering he hasn’t dated _anyone_  since Mom died.”

"Well," Scott says fairly, "sometimes it takes people some time to figure out what they like. Took you a while, didn’t it?"

"Yeah, I guess," Stiles agrees, chewing on his bottom lip. "Hm. Yeah, yeah, you’re right. It’s just strange - I mean, he still wears his wedding ring. I kinda thought that he’d resigned himself to a single life forever."

"Everybody gets lonely," Scott says judiciously. 

"True," Stiles nods. "Okay. Operation Support Dad is a go."

Scott grins. “Guess we’ll never be stepbrothers at this rate, huh? Anyway - you want to order pizza?”

"Oh brother," Stiles sighs, flinging an arm around Scott’s shoulders, "you know me too well."

-

The next morning, Stiles drags himself into the kitchen after a late night playing video games with Scott. His dad’s already in there, washing his dishes from breakfast. 

"Regular shift today," he tells Stiles, who nods blearily and pulls himself over to the coffee machine. All of his classes the last semester were at eight in the morning so his body’s settled in a dumb routine that his mind definitely is trying to fight now that it’s summer. "Should be home by six."

"Okay," Stiles says, scooping sugar into his mug. "Have a good day."

His dad dries his hands off but doesn’t move. “Are you going to be home?”

Stiles shrugs, narrowing his eyes at the leading tone in his dad’s voice. “I didn’t have any specific plans.”

"I thought I might invite Deputy Parrish over for dinner," his dad says. "If you’re interested in meeting him."

Stiles’ eyes widen. Like he’s going turn down the opportunity to meet the dude his dad’s crushing on? No way. “‘course I want to meet him, Dad.”

His father smiles. “Good. Can I trust you to make something good for dinner?”

Stiles salutes him cheekily. “You can count on me, sheriff.”

-

Stiles makes salmon burgers because they’re kind of fancy and his dad can show off his barbecue skills or whatever, and then he makes a pasta salad because he can and he’s feeling benevolent so he uses the normal pasta instead of the whole-wheat stuff his dad hates (and really, Stiles hates it too; it’s got the weirdest texture). He has to go to the grocery store to get the salmon and the veggies for the pasta salad. He sees Lydia there and has to fight his way out of an invitation to come over later and go swimming (“No, seriously, I have to spend tonight supporting my dad’s life choices.”), even though it’s hot as balls out and a swim sounds _really_  nice. 

After he gets the food all prepped and ready to go, there’s still time before his dad’s supposed to come home so Stiles throws himself into cleaning the entire downstairs because he doesn’t want his dad’s maybe future life partner to think they live in filth. Stiles feels weird, jittery, like he does when he forgets to take his Adderall. He thinks that it’s the thought of his dad dating; for the beginning of Stiles’ life, it was his dad and his mom and him, and then it was just him and his dad, and adding another person to the mix _now_  just seems…off. He knows that’s unfair to his dad - he deserves love just as much as anyone - and Stiles knows that; it’s not like he’s going to make a big deal of it unless this dude seems like a dick. It’s just going to take some getting used to. 

It’s _definitely_  going to take some getting used to, Stiles realizes an hour later when his dad comes home, because the dude trailing behind him is earnest-looking and handsome and _young_ , so fucking young - like, he’s got five years on Stiles _max_  and that’s just - that’s _weird,_  right? What does it mean when your dad has a crush on a dude that’s barely older than you? 

Stiles forces a smile onto his face when his dad waves a vague hand toward the deputy and says, “Stiles, this is our new deputy, Parrish. Parrish, Stiles.”

"Hi," Parrish says with a faint smile, offering his hand to Stiles.

"Hey," Stiles replies, his heart sinking. It’s not - it’s a little unfair, he thinks, watching his dad steer Parrish toward the kitchen so he can offer him a beer. Unfair because Parrish is _hot_  - he’s got these sort of sleepy green eyes that are _killer,_ and he looks pretty fit under his uniform. Unfair because if his dad hadn’t said anything, Stiles probably would have been interested in him himself if he’d, you know, seen him across the room at the grocery store or Jungle or wherever. He tries not to be bitter and pulls the salmon burgers out of his fridge so his dad can show off his barbecue skills and snags a beer for himself because he’s going to need it. 

Stiles does need it. Parrish is nice and interesting in a completely normal, un-supernatural way. Stiles’ dad asks him leading questions while he stands at the grill and Parrish is happy to tell them about the little Midwestern town he grew up in and Stiles likes him so much he swings right around to hating him because there’s no other option; he’s not going to sit there and develop a crush on his dad’s crush, no fucking way. His dad’s done way too much for him; he doesn’t deserve that and though Stiles might be an asshole, he loves his dad way too much to do that to him. 

(It’s hard, though, because Parrish looks at him a lot while he talks, looks at him with those too-green eyes, and Stiles has to look down at the condensation beading on his beer bottle to keep from making too much uncomfortable eye contact.)

Dinner’s worse, because Parrish asks Stiles questions and Stiles has to talk to him. It’s all perfectly innocent stuff - like where he’s going to school and what he’s majoring in (not like his dad hasn’t told him a million times already, probably, but kudos for trying), but Stiles keeps his answers short and brisk, like if he gives too much away about himself he’s going to fall in some hole he’ll never be able to get out of. Parrish is trying hard and Stiles’ dad’s looking disappointed and Stiles feels like shit. He thinks maybe he’ll leave soon, head for the sanctuary of Lydia’s pool after all, leave his dad and Parrish to - whatever. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Thank fuck he’ll be going back to school in two months. 

When Parrish excuses himself to go to the bathroom, he’s barely out of the room before Stiles’ dad is leaning over to him, saying heavily, “You don’t like him.”

"That’s not true," Stiles replies, fiddling with his napkin and, really, it’s not, though he wishes it was. "He’s just - I mean, he’s kind of young, isn’t he?"

His dad’s eyebrows draw together in a frown. He looks like Derek. Stiles despondently wonders what Derek’s up to these days. Maybe he’ll be at Lydia’s. “Young?”

"Yeah," Stiles mutters, rubbing at a spot of oil from the pasta salad that’s been splattered on the table. "Like, really young."

"He’s twenty-four," his father replies, and that’s even worse. Only three years between them. What’s his dad _thinking?_ "What’s wrong with that?"

Stiles bites down on his bottom lip, chooses his words carefully. “I just always thought your first foray back into the world of dating would find you someone…” He gestures vaguely. “A little more mature.”

His dad’s mouth opens and closes twice before he says expressionlessly, “Me. Dating.”

Stiles nods. 

"Stiles," his father says pointedly as, down the hall, the bathroom door creaks open, "Parrish is not here for _me.”_

Stiles looks up at him, his mouth falling open. Parrish comes back into the room and Stiles looks at him blankly, his mouth still open. “Uh - “

Stiles’ dad gets to his feet, nodding at Parrish. “Why don’t you two take care of the dishes while I go clean the grill?” And he abandons them just like that, the kitchen door swinging shut behind him. Stiles shuts his mouth, his cheeks burning dull red, and he and Parrish clear the table in silence. 

He’s fucked. He’s so totally fucked. He acted like a total _asshole_  for the last hour and there’s no way Parrish is interested in him any more, if he even was in the first place (he was; Stiles knows how to read signals but he totally ignored them because he was so fucking stupid). Stiles sneaks a glance at Parrish out of the corner of his eyes; his expression’s neutral as he calmly stacks plates and utensils and carries them over to the sink. Stiles follows with the bowl of pasta salad, desperately trying to think of _something_  he can say, but his infamously untethered tongue’s failing him now for the first time in his life. 

_"Fuck,"_ Stiles hisses feelingly, cutting his finger on the plastic wrap dispenser. 

Parrish glances over at him, eyebrows raised. “Sorry?”

"Nothing," Stiles mutters, his cheeks flooding with more color. He puts the leftover salad into the fridge, closing the door with more force than needed, and straightens with a deep breath. "Um - you want a hand?"

Parrish looks over at him again, a faint smile curving his lips. “I’ll wash,” he says, “if you want to dry.”

It’s an olive branch. Stiles doesn’t need to dry; there’s a drying rack right there next to the sink, that’s what it’s _for_ , but he’s happy to accept it, stepping up next to Parrish and accepting every dish that’s passed his way. This close, he can almost feel the warmth of Parrish’s body and, oddly, it settles him enough to put the words he needs together. 

"Do you, uh, like to swim?"

Parrish turns his head, his green eyes steady and depthless. “Why?” he asks. “Do you have a pool?”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “I know where we might be able to find one.”


	60. Chapter 60

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PAIRING:** Stiles/Parrish
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, BSDM, subdrop, aftercare
> 
> **Trigger Warning:** Subdrop

Stiles' hands won't stop shaking. He stares at them as he sits in his dad's office, blinking slowly. He feels...off. His entire body's heavy; he feels like he's wrapped in gauze, the world around him muted and out of focus. Maybe he's coming down with something, he thinks, turning his palms toward the ceiling and watching his fingers tremble. 

His dad's not here. He's supposed to be - he and Stiles are supposed to get dinner - but Deputy Kendrick was manning the front desk and told him he'd gone out on a call, and he wasn't sure when he was coming back. At least, Stiles thinks that's what Deputy Kendrick said; his voice had sounded like it was traveling to Stiles underwater, all blurred and unintelligible. Stiles should probably leave - his dad could be gone for hours - but it was hard enough getting out of the car and coming inside; now that he's sitting, he's not sure he could stand again. 

He's not sure how much time passes before he realizes someone's standing next to him saying his name. Stiles blinks tiredly, lifting his head to find Deputy Parrish standing next to him, a frown on his face. 

"Stiles," Parrish says again. "You okay?"

"I - " Stiles mouths wordlessly for a moment before dropping his gaze to his hands. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Parrish crouches down next to him, gently pressing two fingers to the inside of Stiles' wrist. "Your heart's racing," he says softly. "Are you sick? Did you hurt yourself?"

"I don't think so," Stiles mumbles. 

"Are you having a panic attack?"

"No!" Stiles exclaims vehemently, his heart going into overdrive at the fear of a panic attack in his current state. 

"Okay," Parrish says gently. He's quiet for a moment but his hand doesn't leave Stiles' wrist and Stiles finds himself leaning into Parrish's touch, his eyes half shut. "Stiles," Parrish says softly. "Do you scene?"

That rouses Stiles; he forces himself to focus on Parrish, his mouth falling open. "Do you - "

"Once in a while," Parrish says, one side of his mouth twisting up in a wry smile. Then his smile fades, replaced with concern. "Do you, Stiles?"

Stiles nods miserably. "Yeah, there's this club in Redding. This morning was my third time."

Parrish nods. "Do you know what sub drop is?"

Stiles' stomach twisted. Of course he knew what sub drop was; he'd done his research before venturing out into this new world, but he'd thought he'd be able to handle it. He'd been fine the first two times. Now he shudders and mumbles, "Yeah." His eyes burn. He's such a fucking idiot.

"Hey, hey," Parrish says soothingly. "You didn't do anything wrong, Stiles. This isn't your fault."

"Fucking feels like it," Stiles admits hoarsely, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. 

Parrish shakes his head, his eyes swinging toward the door. His hand's still on Stiles' wrist and his fingers squeeze gently as he replies, "It's not, Stiles. Your dom should have taken better care of you."

Stiles bites down hard on his lip to trap a pained noise behind his teeth. "Can you - " He flounders there, unsure of what he wants and how to ask for it - and unsure Parrish is going to be receptive.

But Parrish seems to understand because he smiles encouragingly and asks, "Do you want me to help you through this?"

Stiles' eyes burn again. "Please."

Parrish nods. "Of course." He glances around the room. "All right, why don't you move over to the couch? I'm going to go grab a couple of things but I'll be back right away, I promise."

Stiles hesitates because his dom had said the same thing and then she'd disappeared for almost an hour. Parrish must see his anxiety because he says, "I can stay."

"No," Stiles shudders, forcing his knees to unbend. Parrish rises with him, steadying Stiles when he sways. "I'll be fine."

Parrish helps him over to the couch and Stiles sinks down into it gratefully. "I'll be right back," Parrish tells him, squeezing Stiles' wrist one last time before letting go. Stiles immediately feels the loss of his warmth and he sways where he sits, untethered and uneasy. Parrish leaves, shutting the door behind him with a soft click, and Stiles hangs his head, forcing himself to breathe slowly and stave off panic.

Parrish is true to his word, though; he returns in a matter of minutes and takes a moment to close all the blinds before sitting down on the couch next to Stiles. "Here," he says gently, wrapping a blanket around Stiles' shoulders. 

"Is this from the holding cells?" Stiles asks wearily. 

"Yeah," Parrish admits. "But it's not used, I swear."

Stiles nods numbly. He's grateful for the weight of it, anyway, and for Parrish's presence. Stiles glances over at him and finds Parrish watching him steadily, his face calm. It's only then that Stiles realizes that Parrish isn't wearing his deputy's uniform, but civilian clothes. "You're not on duty."

"No," Parrish agrees. "My shift just ended. I was just dropping off some paperwork for your dad."

Stiles' stomach drops. "You don't have to stay," he says, trying to be brave and feeling like he's going to cry. "I didn't mean - "

"I don't have any plans," Parrish tells him. "You're my only priority."

Stiles shudders and Parrish makes an aborted movement, his hands lifting and then pausing a couple inches above his lap. "Can I touch you?" Parrish asks seriously. 

Stiles shrugs. "Yeah, whatever."

"Not whatever," Parrish scolds lightly even as he wraps an arm around Stiles' shoulders, pulling him against the warm line of his body. "So much of this is about trust and understanding boundaries."

"Thanks," Stiles murmurs, closing his eyes.

"It's my pleasure," Parrish says, and he sounds like he means it. Stiles exhales and forces himself to relax, his body loosening in slow incremental steps. Parrish's arm slips from Stiles' shoulder and rubs up and down his spine and Stiles sighs softly, turning against him more fully so his forehead presses to the junction of Parrish's neck and shoulder. Parrish smells freshly showered, faint aftershave and soap, and Stiles breathes in deeply. 

He doesn't know Parrish all that well; he's familiar in the way that all of the deputies are familiar, like distant family members. And maybe he had a crush on Parrish when he was first hired, back when Stiles was in high school, but he hasn't seen much of him since going off to college. Parrish has always treated him well; Stiles knows he's one of the sheriff's favorite deputies.

Parrish shifts slightly. There's a click of plastic and then something presses against Stiles' lips. "Here," Parrish says softly. "Swallow."

Stiles parts his lips, letting the water in. It's delicious - he hadn't realized how _thirsty_  he is - but Parrish won't let him guzzle it down, allowing him a couple long sips before he pulls the bottle away. There's a crinkling of plastic and Stiles catches the smell of chocolate and peanut butter. He opens his mouth without being prompted and Parrish laughs softly, his other hand sliding back up Stiles' spine to cup the back of his head. "Good boy," Parrish murmurs, pressing chocolate into Stiles' mouth, the tips of his fingers brushing against Stiles' lips. Stiles shivers at the compliment, but it's a good shiver. He's not cold any more.

For a while there's silence. Parrish feeds Stiles fragments of Reese's, interspersed with sips of water. Stiles still feels heavy, exhausted, but he no longer feels like he's floating. His dad's office is quiet and dark, the sound of the station muffled, and he can hear Parrish's heart beating steadily, a reassuringly constant thump thump thump. "Can I lay down?" 

"Of course," Parrish says, and he lifts his hand so Stiles can shift around and stretch his legs out on the couch, cautiously lowering his head to Parrish's thighs. He lays on his back and shuts his eyes so he doesn't have to make eye contact with Parrish who puts one hand over Stiles' heart, the other settling in his hair. "You want to talk me through what happened?"

"I - " Stiles exhales shakily. "I was tied up. I like - having to keep still, I guess, and I was just finding my space when she left."

Parrish's hand, which had been running through his hair over and over, stills. "Your dom left?"

"Yeah," Stiles whispers. "She - she took a phone call or something, I don't know, and when she came back she said she was late for her next appointment so she untied me and - and I drove back up here."

"Irresponsible," Parrish says abruptly. Stiles flinches and Parrish immediately amends, "Not you, Stiles, no, God. You didn't do anything wrong." His hand combs through Stiles' hair, apologetic. "Her focus should have been you, and only you."

"Sucked," Stiles mutters.

"It's not your fault," Parrish repeats gently. "You're doing good, Stiles, so good."

Stiles makes an soft noise and twists onto his side, turning toward Parrish and putting his back to the room. He falls asleep without meaning to, lulling by the soothing movement of Parrish's hand and an increasing sense of calm and wellbeing. He's not sure how long he's out, except it's still dark when he's jolted awake by the sound of the office door opening. 

"Shh," Parrish murmurs, his hand tightening on the back of Stiles' neck. 

The lights flick on and then Stiles hears his father's voice. "Deputy? What are you - Stiles?"

Stiles stiffens, his pulse picking up. He doesn't want his dad to know - he _can't_  know - how big of an idiot he is, the things he gets into - 

"Stiles and I were talking and he wasn't feeling well," Parrish tells the sheriff evenly. His fingers curl against Stiles' skin and Stiles breathes out slowly. "He, uh, ended up falling asleep like this."

The sheriff sighs. "Sorry about that," he says. "He's got a habit of falling asleep anywhere."

"I don't mind," Parrish says, and it feels like he's talking to Stiles, not the sheriff. 

"Well, you should have been out of here hours ago," the sheriff tells Parrish. "Extricate yourself if you can and head on home - I'll take care of him from here."

"Yes, sir," Parrish says softly. He shakes Stiles by the shoulder even though they both know he's awake, and Stiles makes a show of sitting up and yawning. He avoids looking at Parrish; he's not sure what he's going to find on Parrish's face and it scares him a little. 

"Stiles," his father says, and Stiles looks over at him. He's smiling indulgently. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles says quickly. "I - thanks, Deputy Parrish."

"My pleasure," Parrish replies evenly, and gets to his feet. "I'll be heading home, then."

The sheriff nods and Stiles stares at his hands as Parrish leaves the office. "Glad to hear you're feeling better," Stiles' father says. "Sorry I was so late. I think it's a little late for dinner - guess we could order a pizza, if you want. Stiles?"

Stiles is distracted. His eyes keep sliding toward the hall. "I - sorry, Dad, can you give me a sec?"

"Sure," the sheriff says, sounding a little bewildered. Stiles gets to his feet and leaves the office, trots down the hall. Parrish is almost at the front doors and Stiles calls out, "Hey!"

Parrish pauses, one hand on the door, and smiles faintly. "Hey."

Stiles skids to a halt in front of him, suddenly uncertain. "I just - I wanted to say thanks."

Parrish tilts his head. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah," Stiles says softly. 

"Good," Parrish smiles, his hand rising up to squeeze Stiles' shoulder. "I'm glad to hear it." 

He turns, reaches for the door again, and Stiles say, "Hey, uh - do you think - sometime could we - "

Parrish looks at him, his green eyes tranquil. "You think about it," he says steadily. "Sleep on it. If you still want to in a couple of days, let me know, all right?"

"Okay," Stiles agrees with a grin. 

Parrish smiles as he pushes open the front door. "Good boy."


	61. Chapter 61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "nogitsune!Stiles talking to stiles while he walks around Derek's loft before planting the emitter. Touching his belongings, rolling in his sheets, being a big gross creeper. (is that too dark?? LORD. Sorry!)"  & "trapped in his head, possessed!Stiles, dark (non-con-y) Nogitsune/Stiles in his nightmares?"
> 
>  **PAIRING:** Stiles/Void
> 
>  **Rating:** Mature
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Void POV, noncon, possession, masturbation
> 
>  **Trigger Warning:** Noncon, possession

Void is ancient. It has watched empires crumble, killed thousands, made rivers run red. Chaos is its bread and butter, sustaining it through centuries of unrest and manipulation. It doesn’t mind where it is now, trapped inside the body of a teenager, because this is just a stepping stone to larger things if it gets its way. And anyway, while ruining entire cities is fun, there’s nothing quite like getting close up and personal, breaking down one victim at a time. This one is _stubborn._ The boy fights him tooth and nail, screaming nonstop.

Now Void stands in the loft belonging to the blue-eyed beta called Derek, an emitter stolen from Argent in their hand. The boy has gone suspiciously silent and Void knows why; it can see into every corner of his mind, knows all his most secret thoughts and hopes and fears. It knows the boy is interested in Derek - a _crush_ , they call it these days, and Void chuckles to itself. Oh, it will crush Derek all right. Eventually. Not before it has a little fun first.

 _What are you doing?_  the boy asks, tone muted and petulant as Void moves into the room. 

"My curiosity is insatiable," Void replies. There’s a bed tucked into one corner of the room and Void sits on the edge so it can pull open the drawer of the nightstand - the rest of the room is disappointingly barren of any personal effects. 

 _Don’t,_  the boy warns.

"Why?" Void retorts smoothly. "You can’t pretend like you’re not just as curious as I am. You know almost nothing about him. Don’t you want to know how he lives - what he does when he’s alone?" The drawer holds pens, a phone charger, other impersonal items. But then their fingers curl around a mostly full bottle of lube. "What’s this?" it hisses triumphantly. "Do you think he fucks his hand at night thinking of you? Fingers himself open while he imagines your mouth on his cock?"

 _Don’t,_  the boy repeats, pleads. _Fucking don’t, please -_

"Maybe he doesn’t think of you at all," Void continues lightly. "Maybe he fucks people in this bed and you’re the last person he’d ever consider."

 _Fuck you,_  the boy snarls and Void shivers deliciously at the intensity of his anger. 

"We could have him, Stiles," Void murmurs. "All you need to do is ask."

The boy says nothing but Void can feel him thinking about it, yearning for the love of the werewolf. It smiles to itself and shoves the drawer shut, flopping onto its back, spread-eagled on the bed. _Please,_ Stiles says. _You’ve done your damage, right? Let’s just leave._

Void grins up at the ceiling. “We could stay,” it says. “Wait for him to come home. He won’t turn us away.”

 _No,_  Stiles begs. _Don’t,_ ** _please._**

Void rubs an absent hand over their crotch and seriously considers it. It could strip bare and crawl under the sheets and it’s almost one hundred percent certain the werewolf would not hesitate to fall into bed with them. Void understands carnal pleasure, seeks it out sometime. It’s fucked kings and empresses, celebrities and nobodies. It’s never fucked a werewolf, though but, regretfully, it’s got things to do and it can’t wait around all day. What it _can_  do is sow seeds of confusion, more potential chaos for it to consume. Their scent is already on the bed but that’s not enough. 

 _What are you doing?_ the boy asks as Void unzips their jeans, pushes them down their hips. They both hiss when Void wraps their fingers around their cock, slowly jerks them to hardness. _Stop,_  Stiles pleads. _He’s going to think -_

"I’m doing you a favor," Void breathes, lazily fucking into their hand. It thinks about using the lube in the bedside drawer, adding insult to injury, and it closes its eyes, thinking about the look on the werewolf’s face when he comes home to find his space violated, reeking of the boy. It licks their lips, panting softly, fingers tightening in the way their body likes. Void has scanned all of the boy’s memories, knows what gets him off. If it had time, it’d work a finger inside them, curling and pressing until their toes curled in pleasure. Maybe later, Void thinks wickedly. It likes the way the boy sounds when he gets desperate, the way his voice hitches, the way he cries. 

 _Please stop,_  Stiles is mumbling now, beaten down, defeated. _Please, please._

Sometimes Void thinks that leaving this body will cause far more ruin than if it stays in it. It thinks about hopping bodies - to the boy’s father, maybe - and watching with a grin as the boy tries to repair all the damage Void has caused. It wonders what the boy would say to the werewolf, what paltry excuses he would try to make for spilling his seed in his bed. It groans, enjoying the sound of their voice echoing in the empty room. It wishes it could know what the room would sound like if the werewolf were with them, splitting them open, stealing their breath. Maybe Void will still get a chance - though, with the plans it’s laid, with all luck the werewolf will be out of the game before long. Its grin widens and they orgasm with a rough noise, come splattering across their stomach and t-shirt. Void sits up lazily, wiping their hand on the werewolf’s comforter. The boy’s crying again and Void will never tire of that sound, drinks it in. It gets to their feet and rolls their neck, still smiling.

"Come now," it says to Stiles. "We have a long day ahead us of."

In Void’s head, the boy starts to scream.


	62. Chapter 62

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "STILES/PARRISH: "ADORABLE, AREN'T THEY? THEY THINK THEY'RE BEING SNEAKY BUT THEY'RE NOT." (EVERYONE KNOWS!!!! ESP THE SHERIFF.)"
> 
>  **PAIRING:** Stiles/Parrish
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Sheriff POV, "the sheriff finds out"
> 
>  **Trigger Warning:** Possible trigger for underage? Nothing explicit.

Sheriff Stilinski is not an idiot. His entire career revolves around his ability to pay attention to things other people don’t notice and draw conclusions from his observations. And, all right, he may turn a bit of a blind eye when it comes to his son (not like he’s ever going to admit it, but he’s a little embarrassed he didn’t pick up on the whole supernatural thing sooner; didn’t do a  _great_  job there), but it’s not exactly surprising; they may know each other inside and out but that also means they know how to hide things from each other. Still, he’s not  _blind_ ; it only takes him a week to realize Stiles is seeing someone. At first, the sheriff thinks something supernatural’s going on again; Stiles is always on his phone, texting madly, which isn’t unusual, but he’s careful not to leave his phone laying around like he usually does. The one time he does leave it laying on the coffee table, it buzzes while the sheriff’s laying on the couch watching tv and Stiles nearly breaks his neck diving in from the kitchen to grab it. 

"Everything all right?" the sheriff asks mildly, and Stiles flushes deeply when he says, "Yeah, everything’s fine."

It’s not the supernatural, though, the sheriff is pretty sure. Stiles has been very open with him since the big werewolf reveal and when the sheriff carefully asks “Anything new on the weird stuff front?” at dinner a couple nights later, Stiles seems fine with telling him with new developments with the nemeton, so it’s nothing to do with the supernatural - unless Stiles is lying, of course, but the sheriff doesn’t think he is. The next night, the sheriff comes home from a late shift to find Stiles sitting slumped at the kitchen table over a pile of homework, and when he goes over to shake him awake and send him upstairs to bed, the sheriff pauses at the sight of a bruise on Stiles’ neck just below his ear.  _Oh,_  he thinks. 

The sheriff doesn’t say anything. He thinks about it very briefly, weighs casually bringing up being safe and responsible and using a condom if he’s having sex, but he doesn’t. Stiles is smart - too smart, sometimes - but he’s managed to hold his own amongst werewolves and banshees and whatever. The sheriff thinks he can trust his son not to get some poor girl pregnant. (That doesn’t stop him from stopping by the Rite Aid on his way home the following night and picking some up. He tucks them in the drawer of Stiles’ bedside table. If Stiles finds them, he doesn’t say anything, but the sheriff feels better just knowing they’re there.)<

It’s not for another week and a half that he figures out just  _who_  Stiles is seeing. His son’s been coming by the station more often than he used to and the sheriff’s grateful for it; for a long time, it’d seemed like Stiles wouldn’t even meet his eyes, let alone come visit at him at work, so he welcomes Stiles’ visits even if he always comes bearing some new godawful soy meal in his never-ending quest to keep the sheriff healthy. Still, he’ll take a half-hour of chewing through a veggie burger with Stiles sitting in front of him than a half hour of silence with a basket of fries. It’s a Tuesday evening and the sheriff has a late shift so Stiles brought him dinner - chicken caesar salad (at least it’s real meat, the sheriff thinks, poking morosely at the pile of greens) - when someone knocks on the door. 

"Come in!" the sheriff calls, not looking up. The door opens and Stiles falls silent. The sheriff does look up then, and finds Deputy Parrish standing in the doorway, a stack of papers in his hands. "Yes?"

"The, uh, call logs from yesterday," Parrish says uncertainly. "Sir."

The sheriff motions him in. Stiles has his head down, fiddling with his fork, but the sheriff doesn’t miss the way his eyes slide sideways, glancing at Parrish before snapping back to his salad. The sheriff looks at Parrish and notes the way the tips of his ears have gone pink.  _Oh,_  he thinks, memory flashing back to that bruise on Stiles’ neck. For one split second he’s blinded by fury because Parrish is an adult and his son’s only seventeen and Parrish should  _know_  better and - 

"Sir?" Parrish prompts and the sheriff exhales. He signs the call logs and Parrish leaves with a sideways glance at Stiles, gently closing the door behind him. 

"So," Stiles says, trying valiantly to pick up where he left off, though his voice is stilted with awkwardness. "So, uh, Coach said - "

The sheriff watches his son talk, takes in the way his cheeks have flushed splotchy red. He wants to yell, wants to bellow  _What the hell is wrong with you? You’re a minor!_  but he keeps his mouth shut. Nothing good ever comes out of acting in anger so he eats dinner with Stiles and then watches him when he leaves, narrowing his eyes when Stiles slows by the front desk. Parrish is sitting out there, manning the phone, and his head tilts up to talk to Stiles, who grins broadly. That throws the sheriff because he hasn’t seen Stiles look happy -  _truly_  happy - for almost a year now.

After a few hours of reflection and glaring balefully at the back of Parrish’s head, the thing the sheriff feels the worst about is not that one of his deputies is fooling around with his underage son, but that he didn’t even know Stiles was  _interested_  in men. He remembers that night outside Jungle when Stiles had tried to protest that he  _could be_ gay and the sheriff had shut him down, and his stomach sinks. He doesn’t ever want Stiles to think that he wouldn’t support him or love him - for any reason. He feels like a failure for not realizing before - and here he’d been, congratulating himself for paying such close attention to his son. 

The more he thinks about it, the more his anger seeps away. Parrish is a good kid; he’s one of the sheriff’s favorite deputies, level-headed and dependable in a crisis. If the sheriff had to pick any of his deputies to date his son, he’d probably pick Parrish - of course, if he had any real choice, he wouldn’t pick  _anyone._ He likes Parrish, but that’s not the problem - the problem is that Stiles is seventeen and if he and Parrish have had sex, Parrish has broken the law and he  _knows_  better - the sheriff knows he does. He feels sick. Why the hell did he stick condoms in Stiles’ nightstand? 

He tries to focus on paperwork for a while, irritably okaying expense reports while he listens to the scanner and deputies flow in and out of the station. He can’t stop thinking, though, and his mind keeps turning back to the way Stiles smiled while he was talking to Parrish, and by the end of the night, he’s decided he’s not going to do anything for a few days. He thinks he owes it to Stiles to wait and see if he’ll tell the sheriff about them himself. 

A couple of days pass and Stiles doesn’t say anything. The sheriff supposes he shouldn’t be surprised; Stiles managed to keep the supernatural thing quiet for more than half a year and if he doesn’t think the sheriff’s going to be receptive to him coming out, it could take  _years,_ Jesus. He can’t wait around that long. 

It’s the end of the day shift and he spots Parrish heading for the front doors, dressed in civilian clothes. The sheriff snatches his jacket off the back of his chair and jogs after him, calling out, “Parrish!”

His deputy turns. “Sir?”

"It’s just John when we’re off the clock, son," the sheriff says, making himself smile. "You got any plans tonight?" 

"No, si - " Parrish catches himself with a frown and adds, a little ruefully, "Just a TV dinner and the Giants game."

This will probably blow up in his face, but the sheriff says it anyway. “Why don’t you come over, then?” he offers. “Have a home-cooked meal.”

He’s deeply satisfied by the alarm that flashes over Parrish’s face. “I - I can’t,” he says. “I don’t want to intrude - “

"I won’t take no for an answer," the sheriff says with a laugh that probably sounds jolly, but echoes hollowly in his head. "Come on," he adds, gesturing toward the doors and the parking lot beyond. "You can follow me over."

"I - " Parrish gives up. "Thanks." 

The sheriff’s feeling viciously triumphant as he stalks toward his cruiser, and he pulls out his phone to call Stiles before Parrish can; he’s not going to let Parrish gives Stiles a heads up. When he glances in his rearview mirror, he can see Parrish behind him, looking bitter and biting at his nails, but the sheriff manages to keep Stiles on the phone all the way home. He hangs up when he pulls into the driveway and the horrified surprise on Stiles’ face when the sheriff comes into the house with Parrish trailing silently behind him only serves to boost his mood. 

"Stiles," he says. "You’ve met Deputy Parrish."

"Hi," Stiles says faintly. 

"Nice to see you," Parrish replies politely. He looks remarkably uncomfortable, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, eyes roving uneasily. The sheriff wonders if he’s been inside the house before, then tries not to think about it. 

It’s an awkward evening. Parrish leans against the kitchen counter while Stiles and the sheriff make dinner and they make stilted small talk - the sheriff asks Parrish if he’s liking living in Beacon Hills, and they talk about a couple of ongoing cases. Stiles talks about track and Parrish offers up the fact that he did javelin when he was in high school. He tells a story about a disastrous track meet in Chico that makes Stiles let out a bark of laughter and the sheriff doesn’t miss the way Parrish smiles at him. 

When Parrish excuses himself to use the bathroom, though, Stiles leans over and hisses, “Is there a reason you invited him over?”

"Thought he might like some company and dinner that wasn’t microwaved," the sheriff replies mildly. "Is that a problem?"

Stiles glowers down at the sink. “No.”

Dinner passes with more awkward conversation. The sheriff’s not sure what he was looking for, but it’s not there. Maybe he thought this would force some kind of confession out of Stiles, but all that’s happening is him becoming increasingly aware of the awkward situation he’s put his son and his deputy in. It’s a relief when dinner’s over and they’ve cleaned up and he can say “You’re welcome to stay for the game,” then head for the living room. Stiles and Parrish follow along like leaves caught in an eddy and the sheriff thumps himself down in the recliner so they’re forced to sit together on the couch because he’s had enough for one night and he’s willing to cut them a little slack. He almost laughs at how painfully obvious they are, sitting unnaturally still and upright at opposite ends of the couch, then turns his attention to the game so he doesn’t have to think about them anymore. 

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep but he does, drifting in and out of consciousness, the sound of the game fading in and out. He catches small pieces of soft conversation from the couch - Stiles saying ” - sorry, I don’t know why he thought this was a good idea,” and Parrish replying, “I don’t mind, honestly - ” and then, later, muffled laughter. The sheriff cracks an eye open just wide enough to see them sitting closer, slumped more naturally with their heads leaning toward each other. Their hands sit on the couch side by side, pinkies touching. He looks again sometime in the seventh inning and Stiles’ fingers have curled over Parrish’s. 

The sheriff closes his eyes again and thinks about Claudia. In the evenings, after they’d put Stiles to bed, she’d tell him about all the things she and Stiles had done throughout the day, about all the little lies he told, about the messes he tried to get out of. He remembers her crying with laughter when she told him how, after accidentally breaking a window, he’d tried to insist that another little boy had done it, and run off when Claudia had appeared.  _He jumped out the window, Mom, I swear! It wasn’t me!_  He thinks about the past year, about Stiles showing up at crimes scenes when he’d said he was just going over to Scott’s, about Stiles wearily telling him  _I’m fine_  when he’d shown up after that lacrosse game with his face battered and bruised. He doesn’t want Stiles lying about this, too.

The next day, the sheriff calls Parrish into his office and tells him to shut the door. Parrish stands in front of his desk, fingers absently fidgeting with his utility belt, while the sheriff exhales. “You break his heart,” he says, so suddenly that Parrish startles. “You break his heart and I’ll kill you.”

All the color drains from Parrish’s face. “Sir,” he tries, but the sheriff shakes his head. 

"You keep this to yourselves," he tells Parrish. "If anyone else notices and makes a complaint, I can’t help you. And if you touch him - "

"I won’t," Parrish says faintly, his cheeks flooding with color. "Not ‘til he’s eighteen, I told him - "

The sheriff puts up his hands. “That’s enough,” he says softly. “Just take care of him.”

"I will," Parrish promises, his hands tightening around his utility belt. 

"You don’t need to tell him about this conversation. But," the sheriff adds hesitantly, "you might tell him I’m - I’m more open-minded than he might think, if there’s anything he wants to tell me."

Parrish smiles faintly. “I will, sir.”

"Good," the sheriff says, and clears his throat. "Well. Good talk." As Parrish leaves his office, the sheriff’s eyes fall to the picture of Claudia on the corner of his desk. "Okay," he tells her. "I think our boy’s going to be okay."


	63. Chapter 63

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "headcanon on how the sheriff  & claudia got together?"
> 
> **PAIRING:** Sheriff/Claudia
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Sheriff POV

Before the sheriff was a sheriff, he was a deputy, and before he was a deputy, he was a police officer in Long Beach. His beat took him down along the beach and one evening he got a call about a suspicious woman at the wharf. The man who’d called it in pointed her out - she was under one of the piers; all Stilinski could see was the lower half of her body, long legs with her shins covered in wet sand. 

"Ma’am," he called, his shoes squelching in the mud. The tide was out and the place smelled like dead fish. "Ma’am, this is Officer Stilinski of the Long Beach Police Department. I’m going to need you to come out from under there. You can’t be under the pier."

"Almost done!" the woman replied cheerfully, her voice echoing hollowly under the boards. He watched her turn, mud oozing up over her bare toes. He heard her mutter something; it sounded like numbers. He wondered if she was mentally ill. 

"Ma’am there are  _signs,”_ he said, aggrieved. 

"Saw ‘em," the woman replied. A long arm snaked out from under the pier, holding something dark toward him. Stilinski startled backward, hand almost touching his gun before he realized it was a backpack. "Hold that for me, would you?"

Somehow, Stilinski found himself holding a backpack, watching a brown-haired woman unfold herself from under the pier, a clipboard in her hands. She smiled at him, eyes glowing warm brown in the last rays of evening light. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “Had to get that done while the tide’s out.”

"What?" Stilinski asked, bewildered. "Do what?"

"Census," she said, indicating first the clipboard, then the pier. "Invasive whelks."

"Whelks?" he repeated, more bewildered than ever. 

The woman gave him a pitying smile, two mole by her mouth lifting. Stilinski found himself entranced by them. “I work for Fish and Wildlife.”

"Oh," Stilinski said, and suddenly things made a lot more sense. He remembered what he was doing there and tried to take a stern line with her. "You need to listen when a police officer tells you to do something."

His seriousness seemed to bounce right off her; she flat-out grinned. “I’m listening now,” she said cheekily. “Are you going to arrest me?”

Stilinski stared at her, absolutely thrown by her attitude. “No,” he said finally. “No, but I’m going to have to file an incident report. I’ll need your name.”

"Claudia Wielicka," she said and winked -  _winked._ “You can have my number too, if you want it.”


	64. Chapter 64

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** At one point, I did all these "text from last night" prompts where I requested a pairing + a text from last night and wrote a prompt off it. They're all pretty short, so I'm posting them as one chapter.

**Sterek + "(804):You know it was a weird night when you find curly fries in your purse the next morning..."**

Stiles is slumped over one of the wooden picnic tables outside the cafeteria when Lydia plunks herself down across from him. Stiles winces at the clatter of her lunch tray against the table; his head’s still pounding from last night, a harsh ache at the back of his neck. 

"Shhh," he begs her, waving limp hands at her. "I think my head’s about to fall off."

Lydia smiles at him frostily. “There are two things I want answers to,” she tells him, and he groans at the volume of her voice. “One - ” Lydia lifts her purse and flips it upside down, dumping its contents onto the table. Stiles winces again at the cascade of pens and make-up cases and, oddly, what looks like roughly half a medium-sized carton of curly fries. He reaches out to snag one and Lydia slaps his hand away. “One,” she repeats, “why do  _I_ have these - “

"Saving them for later," Stiles mutters, avoiding her hand and sneaking a fry. It still tastes good. "You said you’d hold onto them for me."

"This is a Valentino spring 2012 limited," Lydia hisses, then hits him over the head with it for good measure. _"Not_  a piece of Tupperware! You don’t just dump french fries into it!”

"But you said - " Lydia hits him over the head again and Stiles gives up. _"Sorry!"_

Lydia sits back down, looking somewhat appeased. “Two,” she says sweetly, like she wasn’t just hitting him over the head with a three-thousand dollar purse. “Who gave you that hickey on the back of your neck?”

Stiles pauses in the middle of reaching for another fry, his hand flying to the ache at the back of his neck. It’s not a headache; it’s a fucking  _bitemark_. “Oh my god,” he says weakly. 

He doesn’t remember much of last night. He remembers getting absolutely wasted and, at some point, stumbling home through the woods, nearly making it home before throwing up into the neighbor’s pool. He remembers a fire out in the preserve, and dancing, and a warm body pressed up against his back, breathing hot and wet against his jaw. He remembers laughing giddily, then no noise at all, mouth hanging open as someone kissed his shoulder, as teeth dug into the back of his back, as Stiles ground his hips backward. Someone…

"Oh my _god,”_ he says again, scrambling to his feet. 

"Hey," Lydia says waspishly. "You didn’t - "

"Sorry," Stiles pants. "I’ve gotta go!" And he ducks around, sprinting toward the parking lot. He checks his phone as he runs and his feet slow at the notification on his screen. 

_**Derek Hale:**  
_ _we need to talk_

-

**Allydia + "I cant see straight, her clothes are all over my floor and I'm covered in bite marks... No I will not go to brunch with you"**

Lydia wakes with a slow stretch, aching all over in the most delicious ways. This is not her bed; she knows that without opening her eyes, just by the roughness of the sheets - they’re nothing like as soft as the 400-thread-count Egyptian cotton she has at home. She isn’t particularly bothered by it at the moment; there’s a deep content in her bones even if, as she finds when she opens her eyes, she’s alone in the room. Lydia smiles slow and languid, running a hand down her smooth stomach and between her legs. There’s a warm bite mark on the soft skin of her inner thigh that makes her breath hitch when she touches it, skin breaking into goosebumps. 

Somewhere, down near the floor, her phone buzzes, and Lydia pushes back the sheets, leaning over the side of the bed. There’s a trail of clothes leading toward the doorway - or leading toward the bed, depending on how you read it - her purse is by the door and Lydia has to get out of bed to reach it. She takes a moment to peer down the hallway; there’s noise drifting down it, soft clanking and dishes clattering. Lydia smiles faintly to herself and climbs back into bed. 

There’s a message from Stiles:  _assface woke me up to go running and now he refuses to take me out to breakfast because it’s a waste of calories, can we PLEASE go get mimosas_

There’s movement in the doorway and Lydia looks up to see a tall girl in the doorway, long, dark hair pulled in a rough braid over her shoulder. Lydia’s eyes flick up her body, drinking in her long, pale legs, upper body shrouded in an over-sized t-shirt. The girl’s trying to balance two plates and two cups of coffee in her hands, and she flushes when she sees Lydia, delicate pink blooming on her cheeks. “Hi.”

"Hi," Lydia says speculatively. 

"I made breakfast," the girl tells her. "If you want to stay."

"Breakfast in bed," Lydia says. "I like that."

The girl smiles and crosses the room, easily navigating the hazards of their discarded clothes from the night before. As the girl climbs back onto the bed, laying the plates - scrambled eggs and toast layered with strawberries, Lydia notes - down before her, Lydia sends Stiles a swift text -  _tell derek to get his act together. i’ve got plans with -_ She looks at the girl thoughtfully. “What’s your name, again?”

The girl flushes again. Lydia can’t wait to kiss that pink skin. “Allison.”

Lydia smiles. -  _allison,_ she writes.  _don’t wait up tonight._

-

**Sterek + "(334): I DMed the cop that arrested me to come unlock my keys out if my car today."**

It’s  _pouring._ Stiles presses up against the side of the jeep like it’s going to be able to offer any shelter and glares through the window, where his keys dangle from the ignition. He pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt - uselessly, he might add, since he’s already soaked through. “Come  _on,_ Scotty,  _please,”_ he sighs, beating his head against the window in frustration.

"I can’t come get you, dude," Scott says apologetically. "We’ve got an emergency surgery coming in - hit and run, man. I’ve got to assist. Isn’t there anyone else?"

Stiles groans. “No one’s picking up,” he says, “and Dad stopped paying for my AAA when I graduated. He said I could take care of myself. Apparently not.”

"Sorry, dude," Scott says sympathetically. "Can you call the cops?"

Stiles winces. “I don’t think any of them are going to want to help after last week.”

Scott makes a muffled noise that’s probably a laugh and haha, yes, Stiles gets flirty when he’s drunk, but the dude who arrested him for public intoxication definitely wasn’t amused. He’s probably lucky he didn’t get sexual harassment charges. God, he wasn’t even  _that_ drunk; it just so happened to be really hot out and the fountain in town looked like a good place for a quick cool-down. It wasn’t like he’d been  _naked_ or anything.

"Thanks anyway, dude," Stiles sighs. "I’ll figure something out."

"Good luck, man," Scott says. "Let me know if you still can’t get in."

"Sure," Stiles says despondently, and hangs up. He’s so fucking stupid sometimes, but with the rain came wind and there’d been a big fallen branch across the road he’d had to get out of the car to move, and it’s such a habit to lock the door behind him, he hadn’t even thought about it. And now he’s stuck on some back-country road while the trees creak in the wind and he gets wetter and wetter with the rain and it’s  _cold_ _;_ he’s starting to shake and he knows he has to do  _something._

There’s a card in his wallet. The broody cop who’d arrested him had tucked it in the back pocket of his jeans when Stiles had slurred, “You are criminally hot. I’m gonna sue you.” 

"That doesn’t make sense," the cop had informed him, but he’d still given Stiles his card. "So your lawyer can track me down," he’d said.

Stiles’ face heats up just thinking about it, but he doesn’t really have any other choice. He’s got his wallet, at least, so he pulled it open and pulls out the card, hurrying to dial the number before the rain smeared the cheap ink. The phone rings twice and then there’s a curt,”Hale.”

"Uh," Stiles says intelligently, and he can feel his face flooding with color. Everything is the  _worst._ "Hi. This is, uh, Stiles Stilinski. You - "

"Arrested you last week." Hale sighs. "What do you need?"

"This is unrelated, I promise," Stiles tells him. "I just got locked out of my car and I’m not having any lucky finding anyone to come help me out and it’s really fucking cold - "

"That’s odd," Hale says dryly. "Last week you told me it was too fucking hot."

"The weather’s been fickle lately," Stiles says, trying to preserve his dignity, then gives up. He sighs, his shoulders slumping. "Look, can you help me out, please? I swear I won’t hit on you again."

There’s a long pause before Hale says, “Where are you?” and Stiles slumps against the car in relief. His cruiser appears on the road ten minutes later, lights flashing. Stiles wipes water off his face, aware he looks like a drowned rat, and straightens when Hale climbs out of the car. He really is unfairly hot; Stiles is ten times more aware of it sober, and he flushes despite the cold, feeling like an idiot two times over. 

"Hi," he says lamely. "There was a branch in the road and I managed to lock the door behind me." 

Hale’s pale eyes turn to observe the road in front of the jeep; the pavement’s still scattered with twigs and pieces of bark. The branch is off the side of the road. “It happens to everyone,” Hale says evenly, and gestures Stiles aside so he can slip a slim jim between the door and the window. Stiles watches the muscles on his arms work and swallows, looking away before he says something stupid. He made a promise, after all. 

"How’d your court date go?" Hale asks. 

"Fine," Stiles sighs. "I had to pay a fine. I’m sorry," he adds, "if I made you uncomfortable. Drunk Stiles doesn’t really have a filter. Sober Stiles doesn’t really either, come to think of it."

Hale snorts. There’s a click and then he pulls the door open. “There you go.”

"Thanks." Stiles tries to squeeze the water out of his hoodie, but it’s a lost cause. He peels it off before climbing into the jeep, figuring it’ll be easier to just turn the heat up on high. His t-shirt sticks to his stomach and he pulls it down, nearly missing the way Hale’s eyes flicker to him. Stiles swallows, heat blooming on his cheeks once more. "So, uh - I’ll see you around, I guess. Thanks again."

Hale nods, rainwater dripping from his long eyelashes. “You’ve got my number,” he says. “Call me if you need anything.” He pauses, throat tightening before he reiterates,  _"Anything."_

Stiles blinks, lips parting before he smiles slowly. “I will,” he says, “and that’s a promise.”

-

**Sterek + "(317): did i just see you in the movie theater carrying a margarita into Frozen? (1-317): All the 6 year olds are jealous of my alcohol "**

"I hope you’re happy with yourself," Derek says moodily. He glances over his shoulder; the manager’s still standing in at the entrance to the theater, his arms crossed over his chest. 

"C’mon, baaaaabe," Stiles cajoles, pulling on his arm. "Stop being such a grump."

Derek shakes his arm free. “Don’t ‘babe’ me,” he says severely. “We’re now banned from every movie theater in Beacon County, thanks to you and your inability to hold your liquor. Now I’m never going to get to see the end of  _The Amazing Spiderman 2.”_

“‘s not my fault the physics are all wrong,” Stiles mutters. “People need to know.”

"It’s a  _movie,”_ Derek says, exasperated. “About a man who gets powers from a  _radioactive spider._ People aren’t there for realism.”

"Whatever," Stiles says. "Anyway, there’s always the DVD. And DVD’s are better, right? You can watch ‘em over and over again, and you can pause it if you need to go to the bathroom, or give your boyfriend an emergency blowjob - "

"Uh uh," Derek says, folding his arms over his chest. He can see where this is going. "You’re not pulling me in like that."

"But  _babe,”_ Stiles says in a sing-song voice. His eyes flicker down Derek’s body. “You’re already caught in my web.”

"Your game is weak, Stilinski," Derek tells him, but that doesn’t stop him from climbing in the backseat after Stiles when they reach the car. His boyfriend may be an obnoxious drunk, but Derek’s caught in his web, sure enough. 

-

**Sterek + "(347): You spent the entire night trying to get me to make out with you (718): yeah I remember. your boyfriend shouldnt have cheered me on though."**

"Hey, hey, look," Scott says, nudging Stiles with his elbow. 

"Hey, put that thing away," Stiles complains, rubbing at his ribs. "You need to put some weight on, man - that hurt."

Scott rolls his eyes and nudges him again harder. He nods his head down the diner. “Just look, will you? Your dude’s here.”

"My dude?" Stiles peers around him, bewildered, and the pit of his stomach drops when he sees a dark-haired man with ferocious eyebrows just sitting down at a booth further down the restaurant. "Oh, no," he groans, ducking back around Scott. "Don’t let him see me."

"Why?" Scott asks, always reasonable. "Seemed like you guys were hitting it off just fine last night."

"We were, and then he got all weird," Stiles groans, dragging his hands over his face. He risks another glance at the guy, processes what he’s wearing, and groans again. "God, he’s a  _cop.”_

"Huh?" Scott goes to twist around and Stiles grabs him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him back.

"Could you  _be_ any more obvious?” he hisses. 

"Probably," Scott says cheerfully. "It’s too late anyway. He noticed. You should probably go talk to him."

Stiles grumbles to himself but the dude  _is_ hot, and he _is_ staring; Stiles glances at him from the corners of his eyes and catches him. “Okay,” he sighs, grabbing his coffee mug as he gets up from his stool, wishing he had something a little more fortifying than coffee. His hot cop looks at him and then away quickly, then back again, his aggressive eyebrows forming a frown when he realizes Stiles is heading for him. 

"Hi," Stiles says, stopping next to the booth. "Is this seat taken?"

The cop eyes him. “No,” he says cautiously, eyes flickering around the diner like he thinks he might be in danger.  _Stranger danger,_ Stiles thinks, bemused, as he slides into the booth.

"So, last night," Stiles says without preamble, and the cop flinches. Stiles holds up his hands -  _bear with me._ “I’m sorry if I freaked you out or something. You disappeared on me.” _  
_

"Sorry," the cop says stiffly. His eyes move around the diner again. Stiles wonders if he’s plotting an escape route. "I wasn’t comfortable with you trying to stick your hands down my pants while your boyfriend cheered you on."

"Boyfriend?" Stiles repeats, bewildered. 

The cop nods his head, gesturing wordlessly. Stiles turns to follow the motion of his hands and sees Scott wave at them.  _"Scott?"_ Stiles says incredulously. “Brother from another mother? Yes. Life partner? Maybe. Boyfriend? No way.”

Stiles watches the confusion pass over the cop’s face and leans forward. “So to clarify,” he says slowly. “Remove my imaginary boyfriend from the scenario - does that mean you  _would_ be comfortable with my hands down your pants?” _  
_

The cop looks at him for a long moment before something like a smile twists his lips. “Not while I’m in uniform,” he says.

Stiles grins, sits up straight. “I’m pretty sure this place has got a bathroom,” he says. “Let’s get you out of that uniform and get acquainted.”

-

**Sterek + "(256):I want to get up and tell you that smells delicious but I'm struggling with the idea of pants"**

People always seem surprised when they find out Derek is  _not_ a morning person; Stiles is very fond of pointing out that he almost always wakes up earlier than Derek does (and Derek is secretly pleased when people find that more startling than the fact that Derek likes to sleep in late; Stiles’ outrage is always funny).

Sometimes, though, he does rise early on - usually in the days preceding and following a full moon, when his body’s still flooded with energy. He’ll rise silently, leaving Stiles with his face smushed into the pillows, and go for a run. The woods are so quiet, cool and grey with early morning light. When he comes home, he’ll shower in the downstairs bathroom so he doesn’t wake Stiles up, and then he’ll pull up his secret Pinterest wall of breakfast recipes and try out something new. [[MORE]]

This morning it’s [apple fritters](http://seeminglygreek.com/2011/09/apple-fritters/) because the weather’s starting to turn for the fall and Stiles has been making heavy-handed hints about going apple picking. Derek stands in the quiet kitchen, one eye on the pan of sizzling oil on the stove, the other on the morning news, and the warm scent of apples and cinnamon begins to fill the air. He’s just lifting the last of them out of the pan, settling them on a paper towel to leech off any excess oil before dipping them in the glaze, when Stiles’ voice drifts downstairs, soft but plenty loud enough for Derek’s enhanced hearing to pick up on. 

"Deeeerek," Stiles calls, a sing-song note to his voice. "Whatcha making? It smells delicious~"

Derek grins to himself and reaches for his phone, shooting back a quick text in response. He hears Stiles’ phone buzz.

"Oooh, baby," Stiles croons a moment later. "I’d come down there and tell you face to face how much I love you, but I’m struggling with the idea of pants."

Derek snorts and texts  _give me five minutes._ He gives each fritter a quick roll in the glaze and stacks them on a plate, then heads upstairs with a tray laden with food and coffee. Stiles is spread out across the bed, his hair flat from sleep. He sits up and grins sleepily at Derek, accepting the tray while Derek climbs back into bed. 

"You have outdone yourself this time," Stiles declares, tucking himself against Derek’s side. "Can I?"

"Go ahead," Derek says, bemused, lifting a mug of coffee off the tray. He watches Stiles take a pastry from the plate and bring it to his mouth, a certain thrill running down his spine at the way Stiles groans at the taste, his eyes fluttering shut. 

 _"Definitely_ outdone yourself,” Stiles says, licking his fingers. “Add that one to the keep pile, for sure.”

"Glad you approve," Derek says dryly.

Stiles grins at him. “Don’t worry - you’re in the keep pile, too.”

Derek takes a deliberately casual sip of coffee before he replies, “Too bad. I put _you_ in the reject pile.”

Stiles doesn’t even pretend to be outraged; he just laughs and leans over, pressing his sugar-glazed lips to Derek’s. Derek hides his smile behind his mug as Stiles pulls away, his eyes sparkling. 


	65. Chapter 65

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tumblr giveaway fic for[thehowlingalpha](thehowlingalpha.tumblr.com), who requested Sterek + future + roadtrip gone wrong.**
> 
> **PAIRING:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** Teen
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, miscommunication, road trip, future fic, car accident

Derek almost hit a deer once when he was a teenager, learning how to drive at night with his dad. He didn't see it, concentrating on keeping the car at a steady speed, but his dad did and told him to slow down as the deer leapt out onto the road. They sat there in the dark and watched it stare at them.

"You gotta be careful with deer," Dad had told him. "They'll freeze like this and then move when you're least expecting it. You'll learn to pay attention to what's off to the sides of the road, not just what's in front of you."

"I need five sets of eyes for all that," Derek had complained, and his dad had laughed.

Derek's not paying attention tonight. His dad's been dead over ten years and Derek's tired and irritable somewhere in the middle of Bumfuck, Wyoming, with Stiles snoring in the passenger's seat next to him. He's glaring at the GPS, which lost signal thirty miles back, and according to the map he'd dug out from the back - fifteen years out of date - the road they were on didn't exist. Not that it was much of a road, more like a wide dirt track, rough and sloppy with mud and half-melted snow, steep forest going uphill on one side and dropping down sharply on the other. The Toyota's having no trouble with it, at least, and Derek's probably driving faster than he should be because he doesn't want another argument when Stiles wakes up and sees they still haven't reached the Bridger Peak pack's territory yet.

They already argued earlier when the GPS first lost signal; Stiles wanted to turn around and get back on the highway but Derek had argued - reasonably, he thought - that taking the interstate would mean tacking at least another hour on the trip and Stiles had gone all icy and said he was _so_ glad Derek was trusting in technology instead of him for once, and that had _hurt_. It hurt even more when Stiles added waspishly, "Do what you think's best," and then turned his face to the window and pretended to go to sleep. That he'd quickly fallen into actual sleep hadn't made things any better.

Derek sighs and rubs a hand across his eyes, gritty with weariness. Things haven't been great between them for the past couple of weeks, and he knows Scott thought he was doing the right thing by sending the two of them on this pack relationship-building trip, like they'd be able to spend the time traveling fixing whatever going on between them, but all there's been is strained silence and Stiles sighing sarcastically over that flat tire they'd gotten outside of Boise. Derek's got this sick feeling in the pit of his stomach; he's pretty sure Stiles is going to break up with him the moment they get back to California, and he doesn't know how to stop it - he has no idea what he's done wrong, and Stiles won't even meet his eyes, let alone hold a conversation with him. He thinks about the ring he bought a month and a half ago, hidden in his duffle bag, and his heart hurts.

He's just tapping wearily at the GPS screen for the millionth time, watching the little _seeking satellites_ message flash across the screen, when the deer come out of the trees, barreling across the road. Derek swears and jerks the wheel aside out of instinct, which is the wrong thing to do because the car loses traction on the wet slush of the road, skidding sideways across the narrow track. He feels the two wheels on Stiles' side catch the edge of the road and get sucked over the edge of the steep incline. There's this long moment where all Derek can see through the windshield is the dark night sky, studded with the bright pinpricks of stars, and then they crash backward and everything goes dark.

-

The whole world's off kilter when Derek opens his eyes again, and it's a long hazy minute before he realizes it's because the Toyota's tilted up on his side, caught up against a tree. The light are still on, shining hazily up the embankment; he can see where they crashed down through the underbrush, leaving a trail of torn leaves and broken branches. It's another long heartbeat before he realizes _Stiles_ , and twists his head to see Stiles slumped against the passenger side window, his breathing shallow.

_"Shit,"_ Derek hisses frantically, clawing off his seatbelt so he can lean over the center console, gently taking Stiles' face in his hands. His skin's split at the temple, blood running slick down the side of his face, still red and fresh. "Stiles," Derek repeats urgently, heart in his throat. "Stiles, wake up!"

Stiles' eyelashes flutter. He groans a little. "Wh - "

"Are you okay?" Derek presses. "Stiles - "

Stiles bats Derek's hands away with another groan, blinking in confusion. "What's going on?"

"I - we went off the road," Derek admits. "I'm sorry. Your head - "

Stiles presses his hand to his temple and wrinkles his nose when he looks at his palm, tacky with blood. "It's fine," he says coldly, scrubbing his hand clean on his hoodie. He glowers at Derek. "What now, Mr. I-Don't-Need-A-Map? You gonna push the car back up that hill?"

Derek shuts his mouth, clenching his teeth together. He counts to five and makes himself say as calmly as possible, "I don't think I can."

"Awesome," Stiles says sarcastically. "I'm betting there's no cell reception out here if we can't even get a fucking GPS signal. That's just great."

"I'm sorry," Derek says quietly, jaw tight.

"Whatever," Stiles mutters, pulling his hood over his head, casting his face in shadows.

Derek glares up at the embankment. "I'll walk," he says abruptly. "Get help."

"What, and leave me alone?" Stiles snaps.

"That's what you seem to want lately!" Derek snaps back. Stiles blinks like he's been slapped and Derek forces himself to take a deep breath, adding more calmly, "You can stay or come with me, but either way, I'm going."

Stiles exhales irritably. "Fine, I'm coming with."

They have to pull their bags from the back over the back seats because the back end's smashed up against a couple of trees and can't be opened from the outside. Derek can hear Stiles muttering under his breath as they step out into the crisp night air but he doesn't attempt to listen in; it's most likely about him, anyway. He swings his dufflebag over his shoulder and reaches for Stiles', but Stiles snatches it away, glowering. Derek sighs. Fine; if Stiles wants to make a point, he's welcome to carry his own baggage, both literal and metaphorical.

Everything sucks. Derek's jeans are quickly soaked to the knee with muddy ice water from slogging through the mess on the road. Behind him, Stiles swears nonstop. In the normal way, Derek would enjoy being out in the woods like this; the air's clearer than he's ever breathed, crisp and fresh, the night sky bright and alive above them. He can't even think about the beauty of it; all he can think about is how cold his feet are, and the ever-deepening well of unhappiness inside his chest icier than the water seeping into his shoes. He feels empty.

They make it almost an hour and a half before Stiles throws down his dufflebag. "This is fucking _useless,"_ he says furiously. "I can't feel my fucking toes!"

"You could have stayed in the car," Derek informs him moodily.

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Stiles retorts. "Put some more distance between us."

Derek flinches and turns his head, staring down the desolate road. Despite their remote location, there are other fresh tire tracks in the mud. Maybe there are cabins along the road. If he can get Stiles somewhere safe -

"Yeah, sure," Stiles mutters to himself. "Just keep on fucking ignoring me."

Derek's heart hurts, but he doesn't have the energy to fight with Stiles right now. He can hear the rustle of Stiles' clothes as he shivers; neither of them were prepared for snow still being on the ground - it's fucking late April, come on - and if he doesn't find them shelter soon, they might both be in trouble. He grabs Stiles' dufflebag off the ground, ignoring Stiles' angry protests, and strides off down the road, keeping his head held high, scenting the air for any sign of human dwellings.

Fifteen minutes later, Derek catches it - the sweet smell of old campfires. He swings his head to the left, narrowing his eyes as he stares through the trees, and relief floods through him as he makes out the dark form of a small cabin. Stiles, who by now is shivering so hard he's stopped swearing with every step, calls after him as he steps off the road into the deeper snow. "Where are you going?"

"There's a cabin," Derk replies evenly.

"Finally!" Stiles sighs, plunging through the snow after him.

The cabin's boarded up, a small hopeful sign on the door informing them that it's for sale by owner. Derek rips the boards over the door down and pulls the door open slowly, carefully scenting the air for any sign of danger within. It seems safe, if empty - there's no furniture in the place, just one room with a rough kitchenette. It still seems like luxury after trudging through the cold woods for almost two hours.

Stiles drives for his bag almost as soon as Derek sets it down, digging out dry clothes. Derek will do the same, but first, there are logs stacked next to the fireplace, and an old box of matches sitting on the mantle. He manages to get a fire going, weak at first and then strong, a rush of relief rolling through him at the surge of heat.

Derek glances over his shoulder at Stiles, sitting on the floor with his back to Derek, sighing as he massages life back into his toes. Well, Derek thinks dourly. He's made sure Stiles is safe. He could keep going now - find help and come back for Stiles. It's an unpleasant idea, though so is the thought of staying here with Stiles when he so obviously despises Derek.

He shifts aside when Stiles comes to sit by the fire, turns so he can peel off his wet jeans, grimacing at the drag of them against his skin. By the time he's changed and turns back around, Stiles has laid himself out in front of the fire, back to the room, crooked arm cushioning his head. Derek can read the tension in his spine, his scent spiced hot with anger. All Derek wants to do is curl around him, press his face to Stiles' freckled skin and breath him in, but he knows he'll be rebuffed if he tries. It hurts immensely; he loves Stiles more than anything. Stiles was supposed to be his forever; they were talking about getting fucking _married_. Derek bought a _ring_ , but it's not going to happen. Somewhere, somehow, Stiles stopped loving him.

It has to stop. Stiles might never speak to him again but he - he has to say _something_. He can't take this hurt. "Stiles," he says quietly, his throat aching. Stiles goes even more tense, his body almost vibrating with it. "If you’re going to break up with me, just do it."

Stiles makes an angry noise but he doesn't even lift his head. "Why should I?" he retorts coldly. "Too chickenshit to do it yourself?"

Derek blinks, lips parting. "Why - "

Stiles flips himself over violently, propping himself up on one elbow to glare at Derek, who's thrown by the unshed tears glittering in his eyes. "All month," he says furiously, "you've been dragging your feet. Don't back out now."

Derek furrows his brow at him. "What are you talking about? You're the one who's been acting like I killed your dog or something."

Stiles gives a hollow laugh. "Don't fucking pretend like you care any more. You're always creeping around, sneaking phone calls - if you're going to cheat on me, just end it, all right?"

Derek stares at him, hurt sinking deep into his bones. He thinks about the two weeks he spent trying to plan the proposal and how Stiles had started pulling away right around the same time. His stomach twists with guilt; it stings that Stiles could ever think Derek would cheat on him. "You think I'd do that to you?"

Stiles shrugs. "I never thought you would," he says, and his voice cracks. "I - I guess I was wrong."

_"Stiles,"_ Derek says urgently, leaning forward. Stiles looks down at the worn floorboards, refusing to make eye contact. “I would never - that’s not what’s going on.”

“What, then?” Stiles asks bitingly. “I thought - “ He clenches his fists. “I thought you loved me.”

“More than anything,” Derek says quietly. He hesitates, then twists around, digging through his bag until he finds the small box with the ring inside. He’s been carrying it with him everywhere, _hoping_. Derek clenches his jaw, curling his fingers around the box. “I - here,” he says, shoving the box at Stiles.

Stiles freezes, his breath hitching in his throat. He reaches out slowly, fingers trembling as he opens the box. Derek’s heart tightens as the pained noise Stiles makes when he sees the ring. It’s a simple heavy gold band - once they got married, Derek had been planning on getting it inscribed with their initials and the date of their wedding.

“I - ” Stiles stops, forces himself to breathe in harshly. “This is why?”

Derek nods. He feels like he’s been flayed open, heart laid bare. “I thought I was being sneaky,” he mumbles.

“As sneaky as a herd of elephants,” Stiles says with a pained laugh. “I’m so - fucking stupid.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I didn’t want to believe - but I didn’t know what else to think - I’m _sorry.”_

“Stiles,” Derek says, pained. He wants to reach out to him but he’s still not sure he’s welcome.

“God, I - ” Stiles shuts his mouth, scrambling across the floor and into Derek’s lap. Derek makes a wounded noise - it’s been _days_ since they even kissed - and presses his face to Stiles’ neck, inhaling his scent in huge gulping gasps. Stiles clutches at his hair, winds his limbs around Derek, his breathing rough and uneven. Derek can hear his heart thundering in his chest “I was so fucking scared,” Stiles mumbles. “I’m sorry for being such an asshole. I just thought - ” He breaks off, his breath hitching again.

“Never,” Derek murmurs, body pulsing with relief and residual fear and anger. “I’m never leaving you, I swear.”

Stiles sits back, cupping Derek’s face in his hands. “I’m really sorry,” he tells Derek miserably. “You probably had something really nice planned and I fucked it up.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek says. “As long as I still have you.”

Stiles laughs unhappily. “After the miserable dickbag I’ve been all month, I’m surprised you still want me at all.”

“I always want you,” Derek replies softly and Stiles smiles hesitantly. He leans in close, nose brushing Derek’s before he kisses him tentatively, body vibrating with anxiety - tense, like he’s ready to pull back at any second. Derek’s not about to let that happen, though; he puts a hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and keeps him there until he opens his mouth to Derek, deepening the kiss. Derek groans low in his throat; it’s been so fucking long since they’ve kissed he’d nearly forgotten what Stiles tasted like. He’s been aching for it, fiercely yearning to put his scent all over Stiles, and for Stiles to cover him in return.

When Stiles finally sits back, his cheeks are flushed, lips red and slick, but that spark in his eyes that Derek’s been missing is back. It settles him a little, makes him confident enough to pick up the little black box sitting discarded on the floor and open it. He offers it to Stiles, heart pounding so hard in his chest he can feel it in his throat. “Will you?”

Stiles looks down at the ring and then up at Derek, swallowing hard. "Yeah," he says softly, voice shaking a little. "Of course - always."

Derek exhales in relief, a smile spreading across his face. He carefully pulls the ring out and slips it onto Stiles' finger. They both stare at it for a moment, foreheads almost touching, and then Stiles kissing him, a little frantic. When he cups Derek's face in his hands, Derek can feel the cool metal of the ring pressing against his skin, and it sends a thrill down his spine.

"Do you want to - " he begins urgently, and Stiles says, _"Yes."_ He leans over Derek, stretching toward his duffle. "I think I've still got some lube left over from Antigua - hah!" Stiles rears back, waving a bottle in triumph.

Stiles rides him right there, pants shoved down around one ankle, fast and dirty and frantic. Derek bites down on Stiles' throat when he comes, hard enough to bruise, hips pumping frantically as he tries not to think about how he almost lost this. Stiles curls around him when his own orgasm hits, face buried against Derek's neck as he whispers, "I missed you so much."

"Here I was thinking we'd gotten better at communicating," Derek says ruefully, after their bodies have cooled a little and they zip back up, curling together in front of the fire. That miserable trek through the woods seems like years ago now.

Stiles sighs softly, pressing back against him more firmly. "Work in progress," he says, squeezing Derek's wrist. "We'll work on it together."

"Yeah," Derek breathes, rubbing his nose against the back of Stiles' neck. "You know Scott is going to be insufferable when we get back and he sees we're engaged."

Stiles groans. "You're so right. He's never going to let this drop. Ten bucks says he mentions this trip in his best man speech."

Derek narrows his eyes. "Just who gets him as their best man?"

"Me, obviously," Stiles says indignantly. "He's my best friend."

Derek bites the back of his neck reproachfully. "He's my alpha."

Stiles flips around to glare at him. "Asshat."

"Dick," Derek retorts, but he's grinning. Stiles grins too, twining their fingers together. The ring's warm now, heated by the warmth of Stiles' body.

"I fucking love you, asshole," Stiles informs him, and Derek's heart swells.

"I love you too," he replies fondly. "Douchecanoe."

Stiles' surprised shout of laughter rings loud in the small cabin. They fall asleep trading fond insults, hands clasped tightly together.

(In the morning, Derek wakes to a little yellow-eyed beta from the Bridger Peak pack standing over them, dressed warmly in a puffy pink parka. When she sees him stir she bolt out of the cabin shouting, "Mom, Mom, they're awake!" Next to him, Stiles stirs, hair flat on one side. He squints blearily at Derek, then smiles sleepily. Between them, their hands are still entwined, and on Stiles' hand the ring catches the morning sun.

"You're stuck with me now, Hale," Stiles says sleepily.

Derek squeezes his hand, not at all upset. "Cocksucker," he says, and Stiles' grin is blinding.)


	66. Chapter 66

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "(417): woke up and there was a mans ass as my screensaver..."
> 
>  **PAIRING:** Sterek
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, A/B/O Dynamics, Cinderella parallel, lost  & found

Derek’s alarm goes off, jolting him out of a drunken sleep. He growls into his pillow, slapping his hand along the floor until he finds his pants and pulls his phone free. He thumbs the screen open without looking at it, effectively shutting off the alarm, then drops the phone back on the floor, pressing his face deeper into his pillow. It smells good. It smells _really_ good. It smells like -

_“I haven’t gone home with anyone in a really long time,” the omega shouts into his ear over the noise of the club. “Promise me you’re not a serial killer.”_

_“Pinky promise!” Derek bellows back, holding out his hand. The omega tips his head back and laughs._

_Oh._ Derek pries himself up onto one elbow, forcing his eyes open though he already knows, from the absence of another heartbeat, and way the bed feels empty next to him, that he’s alone. It’s disappointing, though Derek knows he shouldn’t have expected any more from a hookup. He wouldn’t have even been at the club if Kira hadn’t dragged him out. Still, he thinks, dropping back onto his stomach, burying his face in the sheets. They’re saturated with omega scent, mixed with his own; just a lungful makes his entire body tingle. Still. He had fun, but it would have been nice to get a name. He can barely even remember the guy’s face, just a wide smile and dark hair and elegant fingers.

Derek sighs a little and rolls onto his back, swiping at the floor until he finds his phone again. He lifts it into his line of vision, seeking the time, and freezes at the photo set as the background. It’s an ass - a _nice_ ass - viewed from above, all creamy skin flecked with dark moles. Derek vaguely remembers taking the photo while knotted inside him, remembers squeezing that soft flesh between his fingers, remembers spanking it red while the omega moaned underneath him.

His dick, already hard from waking up surrounded by that heady omega scent, twitches, and Derek shoves a guilty hand under the sheets, jerking off to the memory of a stranger. He hadn’t been like any omega that Derek had ever met; loud and confident - if he hadn’t been on the edge of his heat, Derek probably would have mistaken him for an alpha. Derek just wishes he had more than a photograph to remember him by.

-

“You gonna try to find him?” Cora asks a couple days later. They’re out at lunch in the city, Derek’s treat - it’s _always_ his treat, apparently; “older brother privilege,” according to Cora.  

“No,” Derek says absently. He hears his sister scoff and looks at her sharply. “Why?”

“Because you’ve only checked your phone about a thousand times since we sat down,” Cora retorts. “You expecting him to call?”

“Er, no,” Derek says awkwardly, hurriedly locking the screen. “No - ” Cora grabs at his phone, snatching out of his unsuspecting fingers. “Cora, don’t - ”

Cora swipes the screen open with a triumphant smirk, replaced almost immediately by a look of horror. “Oh my _god,”_ she cries, flinging the phone back at Derek. “I need eye bleach, stat.”

Derek scowls at her, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Maybe that’s what you deserve for prying.”

Cora rolls her eyes. “Whatever. At least I’m not an obsessive weirdo. If you’re not going to try to find him, why are you holding onto the picture?”

Derek shrugs. Because it’s a good memory, maybe. Because he’s been jerking off to it twice a day, more likely. That’s not weird, is it? Maybe a little.

Cora leans one elbow on the cafe table, a mad glint in her dark eyes. “So you don’t know his name, can’t remember his face - all you’ve got this that picture of his butt? Should we make posters? Have you seen this _butt?_ There could be a reward and everything.”

 _“Cora,”_ Derek groans.

“The great butt quest,” Cora says giddily. “One butt to rule them all.”

Derek groans again. “Just drop it, okay?”

-

Surprisingly, Cora drops it, but Derek doesn’t. He gets - not obsessive, he’s not _obsessed,_ all right? He’d just like to see the omega again, if he can, maybe suck his dick. The next time Kira asks him if he wants to the club, Derek goes along willingly, hooks up with a pale-skinned omega. He can barely contain his disappointment when the omega pulls down his boxers and his skin’s smooth, unmarred by freckles. There’s nothing wrong with the sex, but it just isn’t like the night Derek spent with the omega he’s starting to think of as _his._

He says no to the next invitation. Cora says he’s being a big baby, but Derek ignores her. He’s an adult; he can not go out if he doesn’t want to. And just to prove to her that he can make his own decisions, he accepts when Kira invites him to her place for a barbecue. He doesn’t know her friends - they’re just work friends - but he’s met her boyfriend Scott a couple of times, and he seems like a good guy.

No one answers the door when Derek arrives at the house, but there’s a commotion coming from the backyard so he makes his way around the back of the house. The first thing he sees is Kira’s boyfriend crouched behind a bush, a neon water gun in his arms, a serious look on his face. Kira’s kneeling by the house, giggling. She waves when she sees Derek.

“C’mon, man!” Scott yells, startling Derek. “We’ve got you surrounded!”

“I’ll never surrender, alpha scum!” a bush halfway across the yard yells back. There’s a wild rustling of leaves and then a brown-haired young man springs to his feet. He too is holding a water gun, which he aims directly at Derek, and hits him right in the face with a spray of cold water.

As Derek sputters and spits water, Scott gets to his feet, laughing uproariously. “Wrong person, dude!” he calls across the yard. Derek’s assailant blinks, lowering his gun.

“Huh? Who - ”

“Gimme that,” Derek growls, jerking the water gun out of Scott’s arms. He shoots at the brown-haired kid, soaking him down the front. Scott howls with laughter as Derek’s victim scowls down at his soaked clothes.

“Sorry about that,” Kira says, laughing almost as hard as Scott. “Stiles was supposed to pick up the charcoal for the grill, but he brought these instead.” She hefts her own water gun cheerfully, the water inside sloshing around.

“Hey, these are _awesome,”_ Stiles - apparently - calls across the yard. “Scott, can I borrow some clothes?”

Scott waves him off and turns to Derek with a grin. “You want a dry shirt, man? Sorry you got caught in the crossfire. Just follow Stiles - I got to get the grill started.”

Derek nods and heads toward the house, Kira beaming at him as he goes. He’s just in time to see Stiles disappear upstairs, so he follows him into the master bedroom. Stiles doesn’t seem to know he’s being followed, though, for he shoves his wet shorts down and - Derek freezes, eyes snapping to that stretch of bare skin. He _knows_ that ass.

 _“Excuse_ me?” Stiles says, whipping his head around - Derek had apparently said that out loud.

Derek flushes. “I - I think we - ”

Recognition washes over Stiles’ face. _“You’re_ the alpha,” he breathes, turning around. Derek valiantly tries to keep his eyes on Stiles’ face. It’s mostly a losing battle. “God, I’ve been thinking about you for weeks.”

“Why’d you leave, then?” Derek asks. His sheets stopped smelling like the omega - like _Stiles_ \- days ago.

Stiles smiles sheepishly. “The heat fucked my head up,” he admits. “I was halfway through it before I realized I hadn’t left a note. Didn’t even get your name.”

“Derek,” he breathes, taking a step forward. “I’m Derek.”

  
Stiles grins. “Derek,” he repeats. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Again.”


	67. Chapter 67

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "I would love some hurt/comfort with feral Derek, if you feel like it, especially would love if Stiles hid the fact that Derek was staying with him from everyone else, because he believes him to be in danger." I guess this is some kinda au where werewolves are hunted  & killed & Stiles is part of some underground rescue network!
> 
> **PAIRING:** None
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, werewolves are known, feral!Derek, hurt/comfort, preslash

Stiles is the only one home when the alert comes over the police scanner. Deaton doesn’t pick up at the clinic, nor does Scott, which means it’s Stiles who goes into the preserve alone, long past midnight, in the pouring rain. He’s done this before - albeit never alone - and tries to tell himself to keep calm, keep his breathing steady. It’s a little scary, the trees tall and pale in the weak light of his flashlight. He stops every couple of yards and listens hard, but there’s no sign of the police, nor the werewolf, and so he presses on, deep into the woods.

He’s thinking about turning back - there’s been no sign of any life in the forest, and he’s got rain soaked through to his underwear - when it literally hits him, a blurred, pale shape, smacking into his side and bearing him down into the wet leaves. It’s off again, bounding through the trees before Stiles is even on his feet, but he gives dogged chase.

“Come on, stop!” Stiles yells after the pale form. “I’m here to help you!”

He doesn’t get any response; the werewolf just gets further and further off. Stiles slows, disheartened, sure he’s lost him when there’s a faint snapping sound off in the distance, followed by an infuriated howl. Stiles swears and puts on a burst of speed, lungs burning, and bursts into a clearing to find the werewolf caught in one of the hunters’ traps, hanging upside down in a weighted snare.

“Shit,” Stiles swears, going for his knife. The werewolf, revolving slowly in midair, snarls and swings thick claws at him, forcing him to skip backward. “Cut it out,” Stiles pants desperately. “You’re safe with me, I promise! I’m part of the network, okay?” He fumbles the coin out of his pocket, holding it in the light so the werewolf can see it, but the werewolf doesn’t seem to know what it is; he snarls again, eyes burning blue.

They both freeze as, far off in the woods, a light flashes off the trees, and someone shouts something. “Please,” Stiles says to the werewolf, crouching down so he can look him in the eye. “Listen to me. I’m here to help you, I swear. Just let me cut you down and get you out of here. Okay?”

The werewolf snarls again, but quieter, his blue eyes flickering toward the trees, where more voices come echoing up to them. Stiles takes a chance and pulls the knife from his pocket, cutting through the thick rope. He winces; it’s twisted with wolfsbane, which has got to hurt. He saws through it, dumping the werewolf unceremoniously to the ground, and Stiles holds his breath; to his surprise, the werewolf doesn’t run, but pulls himself into a crouch, glancing uncertainly between Stiles and the lights in the trees.

“Come on,” Stiles hisses, and takes a few slow steps away from the lights, back toward where his jeep’s hidden in the underbrush. The werewolf casts a look over his shoulder at the lights in the trees and then follows Stiles, jogging soundlessly over the loam. He doesn’t hesitate when they get to the car and Stiles opens the door, but clambers in and sinks between the seats, body hunched. Stiles climbs into the driver’s seat and speeds off down the road, body pumping with adrenaline. He watches the rearview mirror the entire time, but there’s no sign of the cops behind him, no one else on the road, and the werewolf stays down between the seats, where Stiles can hear him panting raggedly.

The outside light’s not on at the house and Stiles is grateful he’s forgetful, because it means he can get the werewolf into the house without anyone seeing. The werewolf slinks behind him, low to the ground, moving in a way that suggests he’s ready to run at any minute. Stiles doesn’t stop when they get inside, keeps going right up the stairs because this is something his dad’s not going to want to know about. He shuts the door when they get into his room and pauses, getting his first opportunity to really take in the werewolf.

He’s young, not much older than Stiles, and he looks like he should be strong but his ribs show too much, and there’s a lean look to his handsome face. His eyes have stopped glowing blue now, and seem instead to be a pale sort of hazel, intense when they land on Stiles and then jump away. He’s covered in mud, only wearing pants and a ragged shirt and no shoes, and Stiles can see where the wolfsbane rope burned him, livid red and peeling at his ankle. He’s shaking.

Stiles is too, he realizes, a combination of fear and cold and adrenaline. It was probably stupid to bring the werewolf into the house - even Deaton only takes them at the clinic - but what else was he supposed to do?

“Stay here, okay?” Stiles tells the werewolf, with a lot more confidence than he feels. “I’m going to grab some towels.”

He backs out into the hallway and grabs an armful of towels out of the linen closet, though he pulls his phone from his pocket and tries to dial Scott at the same time. There’s still no answer. When he goes back into his room, the werewolf hasn’t moved a muscle, but watches Stiles intently, his face blank and unreadable.

“Here,” Stiles says, offering him a towel. The werewolf looks down it up, then up at Stiles, but doesn’t move. “Come on,” Stiles says insistently. “It’s okay. Take it.”

The werewolf still doesn’t move. Stiles sighs and holds it open, taking a step forward. The werewolf tenses, lip curling up in a silent snarl. “I’m not going to hurt you, dude,” Stiles says exasperatedly. “You think I brought you all the way here to smother you with a towel? Come on; have a little more faith than _that.”_

The werewolf exhales roughly, but his lip drops back down over his teeth, which Stiles takes as a good sign. He takes another step forward and then, when the werewolf doesn’t move, raises his hands and drapes the towel around the werewolf’s shoulders. The werewolf gives a full-body shudder, but makes no further protest as Stiles rubs him down, carefully at first, and then briskly. Some of the tension bleeds from the werewolf’s shoulders, his head drooping forward as Stiles towels at his hair.

The towel’s soaked with mud and water after Stiles is done, but at least the werewolf’s not shaking so badly now, though the occasional tremor runs through his body as he watches Stiles dump the dirty towel in his laundry hamper.

“You want some clean pants?” Stiles asks, scratching thoughtfully at his chin. “I’ve got some sweatpants you can borrow.” The werewolf doesn’t say anything, but Stiles turns anyway, digging through his dresser for some old sweats and a clean t-shirt to boot. He presses them into the werewolf’s hands, grinning faintly. “I’ll turn around,” he says. “I should get out of these clothes before I catch a cold, I guess.”

Stiles turns his back and roots through his dresser again, grinning wider when he hears the rustle of clothing. By the time he’s swapped out his own wet clothes for dry ones, the werewolf’s changed as well, and Stiles surveys him proudly. “Okay,” he says, thinking aloud. “Next up: the wolfsbane on your ankle. You want to sit down on my bed?”

The werewolf looks around warily, but sits anyway, tensing as Stiles draws near. “It’s okay,” Stiles says soothingly, bending to dig through the junk under his bed until he finds the kit Deaton gave him. It contains a cream mixed with wolfsbane ash, and Stiles dabs some on his finger before looking up at the werewolf.

“Can I?” he asks, gesturing at the werewolf’s ankle. The werewolf doesn’t move, staring down at Stiles intently. There’s a ring of blue shining around his pale pupils; he doesn’t trust Stiles, which is to be expected, but Stiles is just trying to help. Stiles swallows and reaches out determinedly, putting his hand on the borrowed sweatpants, just above the burned area on the werewolf’s ankle. The werewolf snarls furiously and moves fast, fisting one hand in Stiles’ hair, the other in the collar of his t-shirt. Stiles freezes, his heart fluttering frantically in his throat. This was a bad idea; this was _such_ a bad idea. Even in this state, the werewolf’s got more power than Stiles will ever have; Stiles doesn’t doubt he could rip Stiles’ head from his shoulders if he really wanted to.

“Dude,” Stiles whispers, barely daring to breathe. “I’m just trying to help you. Please.”

There’s a long, long moment where nothing happens. He can hear the werewolf breathing harshly, but doesn’t dare tilt his head up. He stares at the floor and the werewolf’s mud- and blood-splashed feet and tries to slow his racing heart. It seems like years pass before the werewolf loosens his hold on Stiles with a soft noise that’s half warning, half apologetic. Stiles breathes out and waits another long moment before carefully lifting the leg of his sweatpants out of the way, wincing at how painful the wolfsbane burn around the werewolf’s ankle looks.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m just gonna - ” He gently dabs a finger to the wound, freezing again as the werewolf snarls above him. He doesn’t get grabbed again though, and takes that as a good sign. He works slowly, carefully spreading the wolfsbane cream over the burn. It’s already starting to fade by the time he sits back, and he looks up to see the werewolf looking down at him, something vulnerable in his pale gaze. “Is there anywhere else you’re hurt?” Stiles asks him.

The werewolf hesitates for a long moment before he tugs at the collar of his borrowed t-shirt, revealing a burn worse than the one around his ankle, the wound black in some places from wolfsbane poisoning.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles hisses sympathetically. He gets to his feet slowly. “That’s gotta hurt, man. Is it okay if I - ?” He waves the tube of cream around and the werewolf nods slowly, keeping his shirt pulled aside so Stiles can gently smear cream over the wound. Stiles can feel the werewolf’s pulse under his fingers, heart beating so fast he can barely pick up the individual beats. His skin’s hot and dry, almost feverish. Stiles moves slowly, not wanting to scare him anymore than he already is. He’s stopped shaking, at least, shoulders relaxing as his wounds begin to heal.

The werewolf makes a soft noise when Stiles moves on to the back of his neck, bowing his head forward. Stiles pauses for a moment, swallowing hard before brushing his hand through the werewolf’s hair, and the werewolf makes a low, wounded noise, a shudder running through his entire body. Stiles pauses, alarmed, but the werewolf just presses forward, bumping his head against Stiles’ hand like a cat. Stiles’ eyes widen in surprise and he does it again, tentatively, then again more firmly when the werewolf sighs shakily.

They may be perfect strangers, Stiles thinks, but Stiles doesn’t have to know the werewolf to see he’s exhausted and hurt. He wonders how long it’s been since the werewolf had been treated with kindness, how long he’s been running. This is why Stiles joined the movement, because despite all the propaganda, it’s easy to see the werewolf’s just as much of a person as he is, and he deserves a chance at a real life.

“Hey,” Stiles says quietly, stroking his fingers through the werewolf’s dark hair. It’s surprisingly soft, though stiff with mud in some spots. “What’s your name?”

The werewolf lifts his head to look up at Stiles, his pale eyes muddled with fear and a faint glimmer of something that might be hope. Stiles holds his breath, watching the werewolf close his eyes for a long moment before he says, voice hoarse, “Derek.”

Stiles grins encouragingly. “Hey Derek,” he says softly. “I’m gonna keep you safe.”


	68. Chapter 68

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "Sterek with babies"  & "sterek being parents forever pls pls pls"
> 
> **PAIRING:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Kidfic, adoption

Rowan is three and a half years old, a beta werewolf born of an omega who lived far off in grid in the Cascade mountain range nearly on the Canadian border in northern Washington state. She’d been killed by hunters, and Rowan had been found wandering the woods alone. The alpha of the pack who’d found them was an old friend of Talia’s, and when the news of their find came along through the grapevine, Derek and Stiles had spent two days hammering through the pros and cons of adopting a baby “right now, like _right now,”_ Stiles had said fervently.

They’d talked about it before, idly, in bed late at night and once on a walk, after they’d stopped in a park and watched kids play on the jungle gym. They were in agreement; they both wanted kids, a matter of _when_ , not _if_ , but Stiles hadn’t exactly been ready for Derek to slam into the apartment and say “I found us a kid.” He’d had some idle thoughts about a surrogate maybe, so they could have a baby made from some of their own DNA, and they’d talked about adopting, but adopting a werewolf, well - “It might not happen again,” Derek had said, running a hand through his hair. “Packs don’t usually let go of their own.”

Stiles got it then - Derek was a werewolf orphan himself, and he gets it, the healing power of pack. That’s the moment Stiles relents and says, “Go get him, then - what are you waiting for?” and Derek and Scott disappear to drive the ten hours up into Washington, leaving Stiles and the rest of the pack to scramble to put together a room for the baby. Stiles is nearly pulling his hair out by the next day, but everything’s worth it when Derek comes into the apartment with a little boy slung over his shoulder and a grin on his face almost as broad as his smile on their wedding day.

Rowan is a quiet, solemn little boy, sandy-blonde hair and dark eyes, which flash gold when he’s scared or upset or too tired. He follows Derek around like a very small shadow, thumb tucked into his mouth. His favorite place is up on Derek’s shoulders, where he can fist his tiny hands in Derek’s hair and gaze around gravely - unless Scott’s over, in which case his favorite place is glued to Scott’s side. Scott’s delighted. “You think it’s because I’m alpha or does he really like me?” he asks.

Rowan is terrified of Stiles. The first week he’s at the apartment, he cries any time Stiles tries to go near him. “He’s not used to being around humans,” Derek tells Stiles. “You don’t smell like we do.” If Stiles wears Derek’s shirts, Rowan doesn’t cry, but he won’t let Stiles touch him. It’s hard not to be frustrated. He’s a little jealous, for sure, because Rowan’s fine around the werewolves - he’s even fine around Lydia. He seems to find her red hair fascinating. All Stiles wants to do is shower him in love, to be the one who comforts him when he wakes up crying, to be alone with him for just _five minutes_ before Rowan starts asking where Derek went.

It takes weeks before Rowan begins to open up to him. Stiles still remembers the first time he’d touched Rowan and Rowan hadn’t pulled away. He’d tripped over a toy in the living room while Derek was in the shower, and Stiles had swooped in and plucked him upright and Rowan - he’d looked up at Stiles with big, startled golden eyes welling with tears and whimpered, “Hurts.”

“I know, buddy,” Stiles had said, kneeling down and carefully taking Rowan’s hands in his, examining his pink skin. “Looks like you got a little rug burn. You’ll be okay.”

Rowan had nodded solemnly, blinking back tears, and Stiles had taken a chance, smoothing a hand over Rowan’s soft hair, face breaking into a smile when Rowan hadn’t pulled away. Things get easier after that point; Rowan stops shying away from him, plays games with him, even seems to prefer Stiles reading to him at night over Derek. They start taking him to the library and the park so he can get used to being around more humans; he even stays with Stiles’ dad a couple of times so that Stiles and Derek can get some time to themselves. Rowan doesn’t call Stiles anything other than Stiles - but then, he doesn’t have any special name for Derek either.

“Is it greedy,” Stiles asks Derek after they’ve put Rowan to bed one night, “to want him to call me Dad?”

“I don’t think so,” Derek says softly, nuzzling into his cheek. “I’d like that too.”

Rowan’s been with them for five months when Derek goes out of town for the first time since Rowan came to stay with them, heading south to help a struggling pack outside of Joshua Tree stabilize their territory. He’s gone for three days and they get along fine until the last night, when a massive thunderstorm shakes the apartment building, knocking out the power. Stiles stands by the window, watching lightning light the dark city, though he turns when, in the quiet moment between rolls of thunder, he hears a sob from down the hall.

Stiles is halfway down the hall when another rumble of thunder shakes the building so hard the windows rattle and there’s a frightened little wail from Rowan’s room.

"Daddy? _Daddy!”_

Stiles’ chest goes tight at the words, his pace quickening. He steps into the room right as lightning flashes outside, lighting up the bedroom. Rowan’s huddled in a pile of stuffed animals, eyes glowing gold, his hands clamped over his ears. “It’s loud,” Rowan whimpers.

"I know, little man," Stiles says sympathetically. He crouches down, holding out his arms. Rowan scrambles out of the pile of toys and into Stiles’ arms, tucking his head under Stiles’ chin. He rises to his feet, rubbing a comforting hand up and down Rowan’s back. "Your dad - Derek, I mean - he doesn’t like thunderstorms either."

Rowan whimpers again. Stiles winces as tiny claws prick at his neck. “You’re okay, buddy, I promise,” he says soothingly, spinning around in a slow circle. He walks them back out into the living room, stopping by the window so Rowan can see the lightning lighting the clouds.

"You know what my mama used to tell me?" Stiles murmurs, cupping the back of Rowan’s head as thunder shakes the building again. "She said that thunder was angels bowling."

Rowan pulls back from him, his hands on Stiles’ chest for balance as he gives Stiles a wide-eyed look. “Bowling?”

"Bowling," Stiles agrees, smiling faintly. "And lightning was the angels having a party."

Rowan stares at him for a long moment before he asks, “Will I meet your mama?”

"No," Stiles says gently, turning around and dropping down onto the couch. "She’s partying with the angels."

"Oh," Rowan says. He droops back against Stiles’ chest. "Like my mama."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees softly. "I bet they’re good friends."

Rowan’s quiet for a while. He shakes at the next boom of thunder, pressing closer to Stiles. “I’m glad you’re my new family,” he whispers.

"I am too," Stiles murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "I couldn’t be happier you’re here."   



	69. Chapter 69

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "I have a rather bad cold right now, so can I have some sick stiles, with Derek trying to take care of the fragile human stiles? 'Is that normal?' 'What the hell is that noise stiles? was that you?' 'Why is your forehead so warm?'" Except I flipped it around because of current canon. ;)
> 
>  **PAIRING:** Sterek
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Human!Derek, Sick!Derek, hurt/comfort (kinda)

Stiles gets a call from Derek at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning. When Stiles fumbles his phone unlocked and puts it to his ear, all he gets is silence. He flips onto his stomach and grumbles, “Man, you better be dying or something if you’re calling me this early on a Saturday.”

Derek breaks his silence. “I don’t - “ There’s another long pause and then he says, sounding hurt and confused, “Something’s wrong with me.”

Stiles sits up sharply, tugged out of his tired daze by Derek’s words. “What? What’s wrong? Are you hurt? I was just joking about the dying thing.”

“I don’t know,” Derek says, frustrated. “I don’t feel - ” He pauses to sneeze six times in a row. His voice is heavy when he says, “I think I might be.”

“Dying?” Stiles exclaims, scrambling out of bed. He grabs at his jeans, struggling to pull them on one-handed. “Just hold on, dude, I’ll be over as soon as possible. Don’t die, okay? If you see any bright lights, _stay away from them.”_

“Hurry,” Derek says moodily, and hangs up.

When Stiles gets to Derek’s apartment - breaking several speed limits along the way - he finds Derek as a lump in the bed, blankets pulled to his ears.

“Hey,” Stiles breathes frantically, thumping down next to him. “Hey, you’re still alive, right?”

Derek lifts his head to glare at him, his forehead beaded with sweat, dark circles under his eyes. _“Help me,”_ he says through gritted teeth, his voice oddly stilted, like he’s plugging his nose.

“What is it?” Stiles presses anxiously. “Did you eat something - was it wolfsbane?”

Derek groans, shoving his face into his pillow. “I don’t _know,”_ he growls, voice muffled. “I just - I woke up feeling like _shit.”_

“Like shit how?” Stiles asks, and Derek growls at him, which is a lot less intimidating when his eyes don’t flash and his fangs don’t grow. It’s kind of pitiful, actually. “Give me symptoms, come on. If it’s wolfsbane - ”

“I haven’t left the apartment since yesterday,” Derek snarls. “It’s not wolfsbane.”

“Okay,” Stiles says patiently, calming a little now that they’ve gotten that out of the running.

He waits expectantly. Derek glares at him a moment longer before collapsing back against the bed with another quiet groan. “I ache all over,” he sighs. “I keep getting hot, and then cold. I can’t - ” He sneezes violently and glares up at the ceiling. _“That_ keeps happening. I can’t breathe through my nose - _what?”_ He snarls at Stiles, who’s started to laugh.

“Derek,” Stiles says, trying to sound sympathetically but mostly failing. “You’ve got a cold.”

Derek stares at him indignantly. “I’m not sick! Werewolves don’t get - ” Stiles watches comprehension dawn on Derek’s face, only to be almost immediately replaced with a scowl. “I don’t want this!”

“No one does,” Stiles says. “But it happens.”

“Well?” Derek struggles upright. “I want it to go away!”

Stiles laughs. Derek bares blunt teeth at him, then glowers when he realizes it’s making no impression. “There’s no magic cure,” Stiles tells him. “You’ve got to take medicine like everyone else.”

“I don’t have any,” Derek says moodily.

“I know,” Stiles replies, which is how he ends up at CVS, buying Dayquil for his dumbass werewolf-turned-human boyfriend. “Seriously, he’s like taking care of a five-year-old,” he tells the cashier, who smiles indulgently.

When he gets back to the apartment, Derek’s shoved all the blankets to the end of the bed and is staring mournfully at the ceiling. “How long will this last?”

“Maybe a day,” Stiles tells him, sinking back onto the bed. “Last time I got sick, I got a sinus infection that lasted a week.”

Derek groans. “How can you _stand_ this?”

“I don’t,” Stiles says, twisting open the bottle of Dayquil. “It sucks. But I mean, you’ve had worse, dude. You’ve been shot, for fuck’s sake.”

“That pain doesn’t last,” Derek grumbles. He takes the shot of medicine Stiles hands him, eyeing it balefully. “Why is it orange?”

“Because it’s vaguely orange-flavored,” Stiles replies. At Derek’s grimace he adds, “You won’t be able to taste it anyway with your nose all plugged up like that.”

Derek eyes him just as balefully as he had the medicine, but takes the shot. He makes a face and flings the small cup at Stiles. “I don’t like being human,” he grumbles, thunking back against the bed.

“Oh, come on,” Stiles says, laying down beside him. “That’s not what you said when you were drunk last weekend.”

Derek gives him a dark look. “I won’t miss this _or_ being hungover.”

“It’s not that bad,” Stiles says. He lifts a hand to Derek’s brow, pressing the back of it to Derek’s clammy skin. “You don’t have a fever, at least.”

“I can’t believe this is something you have to deal with,” Derek sighs, closing his eyes as Stiles runs a hand through his hair.

“Every once in a while,” Stiles replies. “You just kind of have to grin and bear it.”

“I’m not grinning.”

“You rarely are.” Stiles snorts at the look Derek gives him then. “It’s just all a part of being human, man.” He squeezes in closer to Derek, flinging an arm across his chest, resting his chin on Derek’s shoulder. “When I was little and had to stay home from school, my mom used to make a whole big thing of it - she’d make, like, a nest of pillows on the couch, and bring me soup, and run me a bath.”

Derek sneezes again and gives Stiles a miserable look. “Is that what you’re going to do for me?”

Stiles smiles softly. “Yeah, man, if that’s what you want.” He pokes Derek in the ribs with a long finger. “You know I’d do anything for you.” 


	70. Chapter 70

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** This is for [Amber](http://obrojobs.tumblr.com/), who won a fic from me in a giveaway like a year ago (I'm so sorry it's taken so long ;___;). She asked for a Sterek jock/nerd auction.
> 
>  **PAIRING:** Sterek
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** College AU, Nerd/Jock, Bachelor Auction, Misunderstandings, Hookups

"Derek, _please."_

"I said no, Cora," Derek replies waspishly, rolling onto his back. He drags a hand over his face. "I have plans."

"Oh please," Cora scoffs. "Studying doesn't count."

"Finals are - "

"Two weeks away," Cora cuts in scornfully. "It's only a couple hours, Derek, not a full day. You're not going to be missing out on anything."

Derek scowls up at the ceiling, trying another direction. "You can't just pimp me out like this. I - "

"Oh my _god,"_ Cora sighs. "Look, I didn't do this to ruin your life, okay? I was legitimately going to go, but I can't swap shifts again or Mel says she'll fire me - I wasn't going to pull you into this. I don't see why you're complaining; it's all paid for, and it's all for charity. A good cause, Derek!"

"If it's all paid for, then why do I have to go?" Derek argues.

Cora sounds like she's about to pull her hair out. "Because I thought it might be nice for you to get out of your apartment? Just ignore the fact that it's a date and think about it as a chance to get a nice meal on someone else's dime, okay?"

Derek hesitates. He _has_ been eating a lot of microwave meals lately. "Isn't your date going to be pissed when a guy shows up? Won't he be expecting you?"

He can almost hear Cora shrug. "He'll probably just be happy someone shows up, to be honest. I only bid on him because no one else did and I felt bad. And anyway, his little stat sheet thing said he was bisexual, so I think it'll be fine."

Derek sighs. "What's his name?"

"I don't know."

_"Cora - "_

"I don't _know,"_ Cora repeats, aggrieved. "They were playing up the whole mystery date thing. You just go to the restaurant and tell them you're there for Bachelor #6, and they do the rest."

"This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard of, and I'm including that time Laura thought it would be a good idea to jump off the roof into the shallow end of the pool," Derek says, and Cora giggles at the memory. He sighs again. "I'll do it, but only because I want steak."

"Okay," Cora agrees like a shot. "But just, y'know, be nice? He could turn out to be really fun."

"I'm not sure a fraternity member and I have the same definition of 'fun,'" Derek retorts, but he nods when Cora firmly says, "Have fun," and replies, "I'll report back later."

Derek hangs up and flops back onto his stomach with a quiet sigh. There went his plans of a quiet evening at home with a beer, a red pen, and a stack of term papers from the class he was TAing.

-

At seven sharp, Derek shows up at _Foliage_ , which is one of the new high-end restaurants popping up all over town - generic in its own, expensive way, doing the same farm-to-table thing every new eatery in the city is doing. Whatever; they have steak, and it’s already paid for, and that’s all Derek cares about. That he's had to dress up a little didn't matter to him. He hadn't gone as far as shaving - lucky for him that the five-day near-beard stubble look is just as in as overpriced farm-to-table restaurants. It isn’t like he had any plans to put out. He can’t even remember the last time he went out - that party Erica dragged him to, the one where - The corner’s of Derek’s mouth turn down. Best not to remember that night.

Inside, the restaurant seems vaguely hunting-lodge-themed, paneled in dark wood and accented with cast-iron lanterns. As the girl in front of him talks to the hostess, Derek squints up at the chandelier over the front entrance, and tries to figure out if it’s made from real or fake antlers.

The whole place - not that it’s huge, only twenty or so tables - seems to have been rented out by the frat brothers; each table has a number placed in the middle of it which, as Derek's suspicions are confirmed when he’s led to a table with the number six on it, seem to correspond with each brother's bachelor number. Most of the tables are so far occupied by guys only, and Derek watches silently as they lean across the space between tables to talk and laugh. He’s the only one at his own table; his mystery date doesn’t seem to have shown up yet, and Derek holds onto the quiet hope that maybe he won’t show up at all, and he'll get to pass the meal alone. It’s an appealing thought.

Derek watches the door with interest as more people filter in; girls, mostly, a couple guys. None of them head his way, but he's so engrossed in people watching that he doesn't notice when someone moves past him from the back of the restaurant and stops by the table. He only looks up when they clear their throat and say, "Hey, uh, you sure you're at the right table, dude? I thought you were supposed to be a girl."

Derek looks up - and freezes. He _knows_ that face, got intimately acquainted with it at that party a couple months back. Remembers his fucking backwards baseball cap sliding off his hair as Derek gripped it. Remembers those full lips curving up in a slightly bewildered smile a week later, saying, “Who the fuck are you?”

For a moment, Derek is blinded by fury - he’s going to fucking _kill_ Cora - but he knows this isn’t her fault. He hadn’t told anyone what happened, too embarrassed to confess even to his sisters, his closest friends. It’s pure coincidence. But he’s not staying here. “No,” Derek says crisply, voice flat as he gets to his feet. “My sister switched - but there’s been a mistake.”

He strides off down the tables, but only makes it a couple yards before someone grabs him by the arm. Derek grits his teeth as he turns to face his pursuer. “You can’t just leave!” his pursuer protests, and Derek clenches his teeth harder as he tries not to remember that voice moaning around his dick. “I mean, it’s okay you’re a dude. I don’t mind.”

Derek exhales forcefully, yanking his arm out of the frat boy’s grasp. _“Mistake,”_ he repeats firmly, almost a snarl, and the kid blinks like he’s been slapped.

At the table next to them, the frat boy sitting there - dirty-blonde hair and too pretty, like an Abercrombie and Fitch model - makes a scornful noise and says, “Come on, Stilinski, we’re going to lose!”

Derek hunches his shoulders angrily; he’s not a fucking _game_. He’s about to let loose on Stilinski - _Stiles,_ he’d groaned, Derek’s hands down his pants - but Stiles gets there first, a pleading look on his face. “Just stay, please? This place is own by one of the alums, and he’s promised to match the donations if no one gets walked out on their date tonight.”

“You must have quite the reputation as bad hosts,” Derek says icily.

Stiles goes red. The frat boy at the table snorts. “Please,” Stiles says again. “We’ve raised almost ten thousand so far. That’s a lot to double.”

Derek hesitates. He’s not sure the promise of a locally-raised, grass-fed steak is worth the effort, but an extra ten thousand dollars to charity? He’s an asshole, but he’s not _that_ much of an asshole. (Also, Jesus, just how much had Cora paid for this? She’d be pissed if he wasted it, and he’d much rather sit through an awkward dinner than face his little sister’s wrath.) “Fine,” he says to Stiles, “but don’t talk to me.”

Stiles nods and heads back to their table, Derek following reluctantly. They sit, and make it through the waiter pouring them each a glass of water before Stiles asks, “So, what’s your beef with me, man?”

Derek doesn’t even look up from the menu. “What part of ‘don’t talk to me’ do you not understand?”

Stiles makes an impatient motion with his hands. “Whatever. You don’t _have_ to enjoy this, but I thought we could work out whatever your issue is and make this dinner not totally shitty.”

Derek grinds his teeth together. If he’s going to get guilted into staying here, he can play that the other way, no problem. “Do you want that extra ten thousand dollars or not? Because I can leave at any time.”

Stiles shuts his mouth, looking annoyed. He lasts another ten minutes - long enough for them to place their orders and receive a basket of bread - before he heaves out a frustrated sigh and says, “Come on, seriously? Like, if someone guilted you into being here, I’m sorry, but I - ”

“My _problem,”_ Derek says icily, “is that two months ago you sucked my dick at a party and then acted like I was fucking _beneath you_ when I tried to talk to you a week later. But that’s my fault, I guess,” he adds coldly, as the couple sitting at the table next to them look over with interest, “for thinking I was worth a frat boy’s time.”

Stiles’ lips part, his cheeks flushing an ugly splotchy red, but he doesn’t say a word, his dark eyes falling to the table top. He’s silent until their meals are brought out, and then he mumbles, “Bathroom,” without meeting Derek’s eyes. Derek watches him get out of his chair and dart across the dining room, grabbing a dark-haired boy out of his seat and dragging him toward the back of the restaurant. Derek shrugs and cuts apart his steak with a sort of vicious triumph running through him.

Stiles doesn’t come back for nearly ten minutes, during which time Derek savors his steak and ignores the curious stares of the couple at the table next to them. When Stiles does return, he does so rather timidly, slinking into his seat like he hopes Derek won’t notice he’s returned. Derek pretends to do exactly that, staring fixedly across the room while Stiles fiddles with his silverware. He picks up his fork and then puts it down and abruptly says, “I’m sorry.”

Derek takes his time cutting off another piece of meat before saying, “Are you?” in the coolest tone he can manage.

Stiles flushes darker. “Yes,” he says. He glances around the dining room - the couple next to them quickly pretend to be busy with their own meals - and leans forward earnestly. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I don’t usually get…like that - ”

“Like a douchebag?” Derek asks.

“No,” Stiles hisses. “I - drunk. Like that. I don’t ever - I didn’t - I couldn’t remember who you were, and when you came up to me at school, it caught me off guard. I wasn’t trying - ” He stops and takes a deep breath. “I acted like a dick, and I’m sorry for that.”

Derek stares at him for a long time. “You didn’t remember who I was tonight, either.”

“No,” Stiles agrees sheepishly. “Not until you said something.” He shrugs a little, looking at Derek tentatively. “I meet a lot of people.”

“Sure,” Derek says sourly. “I bet you suck a lot of dick.” And as Stiles’ mouth drops open, Derek shoves his empty plate away and says, “There. I stayed for the meal. You get your money.” He rises to his feet, crosses the dining room fast, shoving through the front door and into the cool night air. He takes deep, furious lungfuls of it as he strides off down the block toward where he parked.

It was stupid of him to put so much weight on a hookup. He knows that. He’s had one night stands in the past and never had a problem. But Stiles - he’d _liked_ Stiles, despite his cockiness and his stupid backwards hat. There’d been something refreshingly straightforward about him, something surprisingly delicate in the way he’d touched Derek, his long fingers strong yet careful. He’d made Derek laugh - admittedly easier to do when he was drunk, but still. Not many people could do that.

And then, to be cut down so abruptly when he’d seen Stiles a week later. Derek had waited for all of his stupid frat bros to filter off to class before approaching, and yet it’d _still_ felt like the entire world had been watching for Stiles to turn at Derek’s soft “Hey.” He still hears Stiles’ response sometimes, echoing around in the far reaches of his brain on the nights when sleep wouldn’t come. _Who the fuck are you?_

Fucking dillweed.

There are footsteps pounding down the sidewalk behind him, and Derek glances over his shoulder to see Stiles chasing him down. He glowers as Stiles skids to a halt, his cheeks flushed bright red.

“You,” Stiles pants. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

Derek folds his arms over his chest. “And?”

Stiles makes a frustrated noise. “I’m trying to apologize to you, man!”

“Yeah?” Derek says irritably. “Apology accepted. Now fuck off.”

Stiles actually _stamps his foot._ Derek raises his eyebrows, unaware he’d been talking to a twelve-year-old. “Will you fucking _listen_ to me, Derek?” Derek blinks, and Stiles glares at him. “Yeah, I fucking remember your name, okay? I just - I don’t _do_ what I did that night, all right? I don’t get drunk and suck off random dudes, and I’m going to hazard a guess and say you don’t either, do you?”

“No,” Derek says, voice quieter.

“You were gone when I woke up,” Stiles says, looking a little lost. “I figured - I figured that was it, and I didn’t let myself think about it. I couldn’t remember your face anyway, just your name, and I thought, if you were gone, maybe that’s what you wanted. To forget about it. And then you came up to me in the quad that day and I’d been having a bad day, and that’s not an excuse, but I - I didn’t put it together until after you were gone. Who you probably were.” Stiles meets Derek’s eyes boldly, his expression unreadable. “I wish it’d gone differently.”

Derek swallows. “I left you my number,” he says, and Stiles’ eyes go wide.

“You did?” he breathes. “But - where?”

“I - there was a textbook open on your nightstand. I set it there.”

Stiles stares at him. “Shit,” he says softly. “One of the brothers came in that morning to borrow the book. I never even - shit.”

Derek stares back at him, some of the tension inexplicably leaching from his shoulders. “We’re a real comedy of errors, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees ruefully, rubbing a hand over his face. He breathes in deep and exhales slowly. "Okay," he says slowly, "you have no reason to say yes, but...if I were to ask you back inside for dessert, what would you say?" He shoves his hands into his pockets, clearly trying not to fidget, and watches Derek anxiously.

Years later, it's the story Cora will tell anyone she manages to catch. She tells it at their wedding reception, all smirking and self-congratulatory. Stiles always takes it a lot more gracefully than Derek, who never fails to groan and cover his face with his hands. The story she tells isn't quite true - as far she, and everyone else knows, the first time they met was that night, and the infamous date had gotten off to a rocky start due to Stiles spilling a glass of water on Derek, but they don't bother correcting her. Stiles says he thinks they should tell their kids the real version as a kind of lesson, and Derek rolls his eyes.

"What kind of lesson? That their parents are assholes?"

"Nah," Stiles says cheerfully. "The dangers of one night stands. I don't want our kids growing up to be sexual deviants."

Derek snorts. "With you as their father? They're already a lost cause."

Stiles grins at him then, wide and blinding, and it never fails to send a thrill rushing up Derek's spine, just like it had that very first night, lost in the crowded, sweltering rooms of a house party, Stiles' body a solid line of heat up his side as he'd leaned in to say, "Hey man, what are you drinking?"

No, Derek thinks fondly. This is a story just for them. They'll take this to their graves.


	71. Chapter 71

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "established relationship. stiles gets some bad news, or is in a mood okay (you know the mood I'm talking about), and basically derek saves the day with body worship and cuddles of the werewolf variety. bonus points for scent marking."
> 
>  **PAIRING:** Sterek
> 
>  **Rating:** Mature
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, Established Relationship, Scent-marking, Body Worship, Blowjobs

The moment Derek steps into the apartment, he’s assaulted by the heavy scent of sadness, so heavy in the air he can almost taste it on his tongue. He frowns as he shrugs off his jacket, calling out “Stiles?” but there’s no answer. Derek’s frown deepens. He toes off his boots and pads soundlessly through the kitchen and into the living room, but it’s empty, silent but for the ambient noise rolling in through the open window. Derek twists his head around, catching the slow sound of Stiles’ heartbeat coming from the bedroom.

Stiles is on his side in bed, eyes shut in sleep, lips parted. There’s a envelope sitting on his bedside table, a folded letter on top of it. Derek picks it up, silently unfolding it.

_Dear Mr. Stilinski,_

_The Admissions Committee has evaluated the qualifications of this year’s candidates and we regret to inform you that we will not be able to offer you a place in the Stanford University graduate program. We -_

Derek sets the letter down, face softening in sympathy as he watches Stiles sleep. He’d had his heart set on Stanford - and why not? Derek thinks with a flash of anger. Stiles works harder than anyone he knows, blows everyone out of the water with his intelligence.

Derek sits down at the edge of the bed, rubbing his thumb over Stiles’ cheek. Stiles stirs a little at the touch, eyelashes fluttering. He’s been staying up late for months, first to finish his undergraduate thesis, and then cramming for the GREs on top of his job. It’s been hard for him, hard for both of them, and now he’s lost his chance at his dream school. It’s no wonder the apartment reeks with the metallic tang of disappointment.

Stiles shifts around under Derek’s hand, cracking one eye open to look at him.

“Hey,” Derek says quietly.

“Hey,” Stiles mumbles. He sits up slowly, and Derek catches the way his eyes flit to the letter and then away. “I didn’t get in.”

“I saw.”

Stiles fidgets, twisting his fingers in the sheets. “I just - it’s not fair,” he says abruptly, face screwing up in frustration. “I worked so fucking hard.”

“I know,” Derek says quietly. Stiles heaves a sigh but doesn’t say anything else, head bent forward as if under the weight of the entire world. Derek shifts forward slowly, first cupping Stiles’ face in his hands, then pulling him forward into a gentle embrace. Stiles sighs again, more shakily this time, and turns his head against Derek’s throat, arms coming up to clasp at his back. They sit quietly for a while, Derek slowly stroking his hands up and down Stiles’ back while Stiles breathes wetly against his neck.

Stiles relaxes after a while, enough that he’s amenable to Derek carefully shifting him backward and back down against the bed. He blinks slowly up at Derek, eyes creased with weariness and disappointment.

“Something better will come along,” Derek tells him quietly, shifting to straddle him. “It always does.”

“You think?” Stiles replies. He doesn’t sound convinced.

“I’m sure of it,” Derek says softly, tilting his head and dragging his nose along Stiles’ cheekbone. He closes his eyes, inhaling Stiles’ rich scent, soured by unhappiness. He rubs their cheeks together, slow and gentle, all his focus on Stiles and the way his body’s taut as a guitar string, almost humming with nervous energy. He presses a faint smile to Stiles’ cheek when Stiles sighs a little, one of his hands slipping to the back of Derek’s neck, squeezing just enough to let Derek know he’s doing okay.

Derek takes his time, slowly mouthing his way down Stiles’ throat, just barely scraping his teeth over Stiles’ pulse. He makes Stiles lift his shoulders so he can slip off his t-shirt and Stiles lets himself be manipulated, laying back against the pillows with one hand resting gently on Derek’s head, watching Derek press a trail of wet, lavish kisses down his chest, breath hitching with Derek nips at a nipple, thumbs at the other. He maps every inch of Stiles he can reach, drinking in the taste of his skin, fizzling with life under his tongue. Stiles shifts a little, embarrassed, when Derek presses his face to his armpit, bites there gently and makes Stiles’ breath hitch again. Derek doesn’t care; the misery in Stiles’ scent is starting to fade. Their scents are beginning to blend together, so it’s impossible to tell where one of them ends and the other begins - which is exactly what Derek wanted.

Stiles is half hard in his pants but Derek ignores it for now, and Stiles makes no effort to guide him in that direction. Instead, he makes his way down Stiles’ stomach, careful to avoid that one spot just below the left side of Stiles’ ribcage that will make him double up with laughter, and spends what feels like hours sucking a careful bruise onto the jut of his hipbone. He sits back on his elbows to admire the spot, red now, though it’ll darken later. He presses his thumb to it gently, watching Stiles’ eyelids flutter. Derek smiles again, pressing a kiss to it before turning his attention to Stiles’ lower half, slowly taking off his belt and unbuttoning his pants. Stiles lifts his hips without being asked, sighing when Derek pulls off his pants and the cool air of the apartment hits his skin.

Derek peels off Stiles’ boxers as well, then reaches down and takes off his socks. He pauses there, one hand wrapped around Stiles’ ankle, and digs his thumb into the arch of Stiles’ foot - not hard, but massages at the muscle. Stiles groans softly as Derek makes his way up Stiles’ calves, working the tension from his muscles, patiently kneading at them until Stiles nudges at him. Derek smiles again, dropping back onto his stomach, settling solidly in the space between Stiles’ legs. He rubs his cheeks along Stiles’ inner thighs, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to his skin.

Stiles is fully hard now, his dick red and arching toward his stomach. Derek brushes his fingers against the base of him, the smell of his arousal making Derek’s skin burn with want - but he looks up at Stiles first for permission. Stiles’ eyes have gone a little glassy but he nods, lips parting in anticipation, and Derek doesn’t hesitate to lean in then, curling his hand around the base of Stiles’ dick, swiping his tongue across the tip. Stiles makes a soft, almost hurt noise, hips jolting up, and Derek lays a heavy arm across his stomach to keep him still, slow inch-by-inch, his eyes fixed on Stiles’ face. Stiles has his eyes on the ceiling, mouthing something that looks like _Oh my god_.

Derek grins, taking him deeper, lips meeting his hand before he pulls up and off. “Doing okay?” he asks softly, and Stiles tears his eyes away from the ceiling to look at him.

“Yeah,” he breathes, lifting a hand to touch Derek’s face, fingers trailing along his jawline. “Just thinking about how lucky I am to have you.”

Derek smiles, jacking him slowly. “Sweet talker.”

“I mean it,” Stiles says seriously, and Derek’s smile widens.

“I know,” he replies placidly, and takes Stiles into his mouth again, bobbing his head up and down until Stiles’ breathing starts to pick up, his hips straining against the hold of Derek’s arm. Derek lets him go then, lets him grip at Derek’s hair and fuck up into his mouth until he’s coming down Derek’s throat with a startled gasp. Derek waits for Stiles to let go of his hair before he pulls off him, lazily licking his lips as he rests his cheek against Stiles’ thigh.

“Thanks,” Stiles says softly, running a hand through Derek’s hair. “For everything.”

Derek turns his head as Stiles’ hand slips down his cheek, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ palm. “My pleasure,” he murmurs.

“You really think something better’s going to come along?” Stiles asks.

“Things will work out,” Derek tells him.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees slowly, smiling for the first time since Derek came home. “They always do.”


	72. Chapter 72

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "the pack at the lake house for the first time after 3b ;u;"
> 
>  **PAIRING:** None
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, Canon Compliant, Lakehouse, Pack bonding time

They drive up in two cars. Lydia knows the way so she leads. Stiles sits in the front passenger’s seat and fiddles with the radio until Lydia slaps his hand and tells him he’s banned from playing DJ. Malia sprawls across the back seat, attention fixed out the window at the trees and houses flashing past, eyes flashing blue with excitement.

Derek’s driving the other car, with Scott and Kira in tow, but they soon fall out of sight behind Lydia’s car.

“Derek drives like a little old lady,” Lydia snorts.

“It’s that mom car he bought,” Stiles replies, putting his feet up on the dash and taking them down just as quickly at Lydia’s dark look. “Goes with the territory. He drove like a speed demon when he had the Camaro.”

“I want to learn how to drive,” Malia says, her voice drifting up from the back seat.

“I’ll teach you,” Stiles says easily.

 _“I’ll_ teach you,” Lydia overrides, and when Stiles glares her she says, “There’s a reason why you’re not driving today. If Derek drives like an old lady, you drive exactly like what you are - a teenager.”

“Excuse me,” Stiles says indignantly. “I’ve only crashed my car three times, thanks. Once to save Melissa from Peter, once to hit your stupid ex boyfriend, and once - okay, the night of the eclipse wasn’t on purpose, but - ”

“Mm,” Lydia hums, plainly ignoring him. Stiles huffs and, in the backseat, Malia laughs.

It’s a beautiful fall day, unseasonably warm, skies a sharp blue with nary a cloud in sight. They’ve just about finished unpacking the car, Stiles’ shirt starting to stick to his back, when Derek and the others arrive, bumping sedately down the dirt driveway.

“Hey slowpokes!” Stiles hollers. Derek flips him off but Scott just laughs, tumbling out of the back seat after Kira, who’s grinning widely.

It’s already past noon and none of them have eaten, so they make a massive amount of sandwiches and eat out on the sloping lawn that leads down to the lake, soaking in the sun, chatting lazily. Malia scarfs down several sandwiches and darts off towards the woods, her long, lean legs flashing in the sun.

“Don’t go too far!” Scott calls after her.

“Yes, Mom!” she howls back, disappearing amongst the trees.

“Wild child,” Stiles says absently, dropping back onto his elbows and stretching out in the warm afternoon light. Lydia’s done the same a couple feet away, her eyes closed, arms stretched out like she’s flying. Derek’s further down the lawn, fingers absently plucking at the grass, his head turned - probably listening to Malia move through the woods. Scott takes Kira by the hands and leads her off for a walk around the lake shore and Stiles watches them for a while as they pick up rocks and skim them across the water. Scott gets three skips at most, maybe. Kira gets eleven and pushes playfully at Scott. Then they disappear behind the boathouse and Stiles turns his attention to the sky.

It’s all so normal it feels wrong somehow. Even after two weeks of peace, he has this sick feeling that something’s going to go wrong. There’s this hollow place in his chest where the nogitsune sat. He hears echoes in his head sometimes, a soft sibilant voice he can’t quite make out. Void is gone, gone for good according to Deaton, but he can’t quite shake that empty feeling. He hasn’t woken up screaming in a week, but he still wakes with his sheets damp from sweat, never quite rested.

A shadow falls over him and Stiles jolts in surprise but it’s just Derek moving closer, settling down on the grass a couple feet from Stiles, opposite Lydia. He doesn’t say anything to Stiles, but his expression says he gets it. Stiles knows he does; Scott told him how Derek had almost set Chris Argent on fire, one of Void’s flies beneath his skin. Stiles rubs an absent hand across his stomach, where there’s a long, dark scar from where the nogitsune cut him - them - open, the only physical trace it was ever there. Derek tilts his head, a silent inquiry, and Stiles manages to scrounge up a faint smile. Derek watches him for a long minute before he turns his head, looking back toward the trees. Stiles falls asleep on the grass and doesn’t dream about anything at all.

-

As the sun sets, they gather out on the dock. Lydia stands with her toes curled over the edge, a small jar in her hands, innocuous and almost too plain for its purpose. Chris Argent had pressed it into her hands after the funeral and walked away without a word. Now they all press together on the dock, silent, watching Lydia’s slim hands tighten and loosen around the jar, over and over until Scott steps up next to her and puts a hand over hers. Kira sidles up to Scott, taking hold of his other hand, and Stiles moves to put his hand on Lydia’s back. Malia takes his hand - he’s not sure she gets what’s happening, exactly, but she understands the mood - and gestures ferociously at Derek until he moves close enough for her to grab his wrist.

They stand there together for a long time, silent and connected, and then Lydia exhales slowly, lifting the jar. Scott takes his hand off hers and places it on her back, fingers brushing Stiles’, and for a moment Stiles has to resist this giddy urge to push her off the dock. He makes himself stay still, however, and watches Lydia carefully twist off the lid to the jar.

“Sleep well,” she says softly, eyes wet but voice steady, and tilts the jar upside down over the water. They all watch in silence as Allison’s ashes are caught by the wind and swirl away over the gentle swells of the lake, disappearing into the fading light.

-

They build a bonfire that night and nearly make themselves sick gorging on smores. Everyone’s disgusted by Kira’s method of roasting marshmallows, which involves sticking them deep into the flames until they catch on fire, blowing them out, peeling off the charred outer shell and eating it, and then repeating the process over and over until there’s no marshmallow left to eat. Kira just smirks, content to eat her charbroiled sugar. No one’s surprised to find Derek’s exceedingly patient with his; he crouches by the fire for a long time, carefully roasting his marshmallow until it’s a perfect golden brown. He looks extremely offended when Malia snatches it off the end of the stick and pops it in her mouth with a feral grin.

Stiles has trouble sleeping that night. Despite the presence of his friends and pack, the house is almost too quiet, its layout unfamiliar when he gets out of bed and wanders down the dark hallway. He barks his shin on the coffee table in the living room and folds in silent agony. When he’s recovered, he makes his much more careful way outside, skin prickling into goosebumps as he walks over the dew-dampened grass, down the lawn to the lakeshore. It’s easier out here, with the sound of the waves gently pulling at the shore, slapping up against the dock. A fish splashes far out on the water and closer, a bullfrog groans. All around him is the sound of the night, crickets and other insects buzzing deep in the woods.

Stiles settles cross-legged near the lake edge, eyes half open. It’s dark out here, but it’s not the same kind of darkness that engulfs his room sometimes, blanketing him in a dull kind of terror. This is a peaceful dark, undisturbed by evil. His mind feels clearer than it has in months. He’s relaxed enough that he only jumps a _little_ when Scott sits down next to him. Scott gives him a guilty grin.

“Can’t sleep?”

Stiles shrugs, one side of his mouth lifting in a smile. “Communing with nature.”

“As you do,” Scott agrees solemnly. He looks out over the lake, his dark eyes bright, reflecting the moonlight hitting the water.

“See anything?”

Scott shakes his head. “All clear.”

“Good.” Stiles pulls his knees to his chest, looping his arms around them. Scott scoots closer and wraps his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, easily taking his weight when Stiles leans into him. He falls asleep there, Scott a warm line up his side, and the next time he wakes up the rest of the pack’s there - Scott’s asleep, Kira’s head on his thigh, Lydia and Malia’s heads on her stomach. Derek’s standing with his feet in the water, waves lapping at his ankles, guarding over them. Derek always puts a little distance between himself and the rest of them, like he’s not sure he’s really wanted. Stiles is surprised he even came to the lake house with them.

He stretches out an arm and Derek turns to look at him. “Come on,” Stiles says sleepily. “Nothing’s going to attack us tonight.”

"You’re sure of that?" Derek asks, but he steps out of the water and crosses the grass silently.

"I’m not sure of anything," Stiles confesses as Derek crouches down next to him.

Derek watches him for a long moment. “Be sure of this,” he says softly, and gestures to the pack sleeping around them. “Be sure of this,” he repeats, tapping a finger to Stiles’ chest, right above his heart. Stiles catches him by the wrist, feeling Derek’s steady pulse beneath his fingers.

"Thanks," Stiles says quietly, and he thinks he sees Derek smile. Derek sinks from his crouch to sit on the grass, unfolding his legs before him.

"May I?" Derek asks, so soft it’s nearly a whisper. Stiles nods automatically, eyes widening as Derek leans against him, stiff at first, then relaxing when Stiles puts an arm around his shoulder. Stiles leans back against Scott in turn, slouching down until he’s comfortable, sandwiched between Scott and Derek. It’s surprising how how easy it is to sleep then, body and mind calming, surrounded by the love and security of his friends, his pack. His family.


	73. Chapter 73

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "sterek + (412):My one night stand from last night is currently mowing my lawn for me."
> 
>  **PAIRING:** Sterek
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, One Night Stand, TFLN prompt

Stiles wakes up naked and hungover, skin too hot, a horrible buzzing noise vibrating between his ears. He groans wholeheartedly and flips onto his stomach, kicking a leg out from under the blankets to try to cool down, grimacing at the sticky-sore feeling of his thighs.

“Dude,” he sighs into his pillow. “You fucking wrecked my ass — in the best way possible.”

There’s no response from the dude he brought home last night. Stiles lifts his head from the pillow and scowls when he sees the bed’s empty next to him. He raises himself up higher, scowl deepening when he sees no note on the nightstand, the dude’s jeans gone from the floor.

“Fucker,” Stiles mutters, flopping back down onto the mattress. He probably shouldn’t expect any more - or less - from a hookup, but he can’t help the unhappy twist of his stomach. The guy from last night - Derek, he’d said in the cab home, almost shyly, like he hadn’t just had his tongue down Stiles’ throat. He’d been different than the guys Stiles usually went home with; there was the fact that Stiles had brought _him_ home, for one, usually a huge no-no for him. And yeah, there’d been that usual frantic round of sex when they first got through the door, but after, Derek hadn’t even pretended to think about leaving, drawing an arm across Stiles’ chest and shoving his face up against his neck. They’d watched two episodes of _Bob’s Burgers_ on Stiles’ laptop and then they’d fucked again, and it’d been so different that time, quiet and slow. Derek kept touching his face and kissing him like it meant something. It’d felt - well, it hadn’t felt like a hook-up, so Stiles feels like he can’t be blamed for hoping the dude would still be there when he woke up.

Stiles groans into his pillow before finally prying himself out of bed, stumbling down the hall to the bathroom to piss, and then into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee brewing. To his surprise, there’s already a half-empty pot there, still warm. Stiles scowls even as he pours himself a cup; so Derek could hang around long enough to make himself coffee, but not wake Stiles up or even leave a note? Double fucker.

“Shut _up,”_ Stiles moans. The droning noise in his head’s getting louder; he has to set down his coffee and go searching through the cabinet above the sink to find the aspirin. He’s going to drug himself and drink his coffee and go back to bed. He doesn’t care if it’s already almost noon; this day is a fucking _bust._ At least Scott’s at Kira’s for the weekend, and won’t be around to make fun of him.

Stiles is halfway through his second cup of coffee, eyes half shut, when it occurs to him that there’s something weird about the noise he keeps hearing. It waxes and wanes, the sound growing louder and softer in gradual waves. He frowns a little; maybe it’s not in his head. He turns, peering out the front window, but the street’s empty. Frown deepening, Stiles steps out of the kitchen and into the dining room, where the sliding door to the backyard’s open, the screen letting in a hot breeze.

Derek’s outside, pushing the lawn mower down the last strip of shin-deep grass. Stiles and Scott have been reminding each other to do it for weeks, but in their typical fashion, neither have gotten around to doing it. Except Derek has. Derek’s mowing his lawn.

Stiles leans against the doorframe with his cup of coffee, mouth open in surprise as Derek finishes up the final patch of grass, then shuts off the mower. The droning noise of it cuts off abruptly, leaving Stiles’ ears ringing with the sudden silence. Derek doesn’t notice him until after he’s returned the mower to the shed; he spots Stiles standing in the doorway as he walks back across the freshly-mown lawn, and a faint smile crosses his face.

“Hey,” Derek says softly, stopping on the other side of the screen door. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his face, the cuffs of his jeans green.

“Hi,” Stiles says, his throat tightening. “You mowed my lawn.” No one’s ever mowed the lawn for him before.

One side of Derek’s mouth curves up. “Is that a problem?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

Stiles grins in reply. “You’re not going to catch me complaining. I thought you’d left.”

Derek shakes his head slowly. “Got bored waiting for you to wake up. I was going to ask if you wanted to go get breakfast, though - “ he pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the time. “Lunch now, maybe.” He looks up at Stiles hopefully.

“Yes,” Stiles says, without even pausing to think about it.

Derek gives him another faint smile as he slides the screen door open. “Mind if I use your shower?” His eyes flicker down Stiles’ body; Stiles realizes, without much shame, that he’s still naked. “You can join me, if you want.”

“Oh, _fuck_ yes,” Stiles breathes. He curls his hand around Derek’s wrist and hauls him through the house. Derek laughs as he’s towed along, turning his hand so their fingers twine together. Derek squeezes his hands and Stiles’ heart leaps in response.

It feels like the start of something.


	74. Chapter 74

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "(810): I slept awesome next to you. You're like an electric blanket that I can have morning sex with. Sterek :)"
> 
>  **PAIRING:** Sterek
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, TFLN prompt, Canon Compliant, Post 3b, Hurt/Comfort

Void exits Stiles’ body and leaves an empty hole in the middle of his chest. He can feel it in the days and weeks after, cold and hollow as he sits in class, eats dinner with his dad, smiles for Scott. Scott’s not fooled by Stiles’ smiles - Stiles hasn’t been able to fool him since he was eight and his mom was admitted to the hospital for the first time - but he doesn’t say anything. He just stays close, all the time - in class, at the house, when everyone’s hanging out at Derek’s loft. _Everyone_ stays close; Stiles doesn’t have to say anything. They all seem to know anyway.

He’s always cold now. He wears a t-shirt and a button-up and a hoodie at minimum, sometimes two hoodies if it’s overcast. They’re all new clothes; Void tainted everything he touched. Scott wrinkled his nose at Stiles the day before Allison’s funeral, and Lydia dragged him to the mall the day after. His sheets are new too, his blankets and comforter. The only thing he refuses to let go of is the thick blanket his mom crocheted while she was pregnant with him; he washes it once a day and figures the smell of the nogitsune will go away eventually if he just keeps on using it. Scott still wrinkles his nose, but it’s more of a joke now than anything.

Stiles still has nightmares. If anything, they’re worse than they were before Void took hold of his body because he knows now - knows what it feels like to stab his best friend in the stomach, knows the sound of people in pain, knows the look of horror on his dad’s face. He still wakes up screaming, still wakes to his dad’s arms around him, holding him down. If his new sheets didn’t smell like him, they do now, soaked through with his sweat. He doesn’t tell Scott about the nightmares, either, but Scott knows. The first night he wakes up on his own, through some miracle, not by a nightmare, he finds Scott sleeping on the floor next to his bed and Stiles stares down at him for a long time. He doesn’t dream that night, though - or if he does, he doesn’t remember it.

The next time, it’s Derek; Stiles wakes up to find him standing by the window, sharp features washed silver in the weak light of the half moon. He watches Stiles silently, and Stiles stares back at him for a long moment before he flips onto his side and falls back asleep. It doesn’t bother him. It might have, once upon a time, but mostly it just fills him with comfort, knowing his friends are trying to take care of him. The next time he catches Scott sleeping on the floor, he leans over the side of the bed and pokes at Scott until he wakes up.

“Dude,” Stiles whispers as Scott blinks up at him sleepily. “Just get into bed. You don’t have to sleep on the floor.” He’s not sure why Scott is even bothering with the floor; it’s not like they still don’t share a bed when they have normal sleepovers. Scott grins wearily and clambers up next to him. “Is it just you? Is Derek on the roof? Is Lydia in my closet?”

Scott snorts, rolling onto his side. “Lydia wanted to come, but she hardly gets any more sleep than you do.”

He didn’t say anything about Derek, Stiles notes, but he’s too sleepy. Scott’s warm next to him and when Stiles wakes in the morning, he’s less cold than he’s felt in weeks. He even kicked his socks off in his sleep.

-

When Stiles wakes up screaming three nights later, it’s because he dreamed he’d lit his father on fire. His own laughter’s still ringing in his ears when he wakes, body flying up off the mattress only to be pressed back against it by strong arms. He thinks it’s his dad at first, but his dad’s on an overnight shift, and when Stiles blinks enough tears out of his eyes, he finds it’s Derek, staring down at him with a solemn expression on his face, brow slightly furrowed. He’s so startled that it shocks him out of the clinging fear of his nightmare more quickly than usual. Derek blinks down at him.

“You all right?”

“I - ” Stiles shuts his eyes for a moment, focusing on the warm points on his shoulders where Derek’s holding him down. “Yeah. Just. A dream.”

“I figured,” Derek says dryly, but he lets go of Stiles, straightening. Stiles watches him retreat to the desk, where he sits, a darker shadow in the darkness of the room. Stiles swipes a hand over his face.

“That’s creepy, you know?”

Derek’s eyes shine blue at him, two perfect circles of electric cyan. “Better?”

“Worse,” Stiles says with a reluctant grin, hearing the sarcasm in Derek’s voice. He flops back against his mattress, cold sweat dampening the back of his shirt. He’s awake now, afraid to go back to sleep. He can still hear his laughter and his dad’s screams echoing between his ears. He sits up again. “I’m going to call my dad.”

There’s no movement from Derek, but Stiles can feel him watching him as he picks up his phone and heads downstairs. He goes out the front door and sits on the front steps. The air outside is cold, and doesn’t make him feel much better, but it’s fresh and quiet at least, the street lit with soft orange light from the streetlamps. He breathes in deeply and punches in his dad’s number, puts the phone to his ear and listens to the soft ringing.

“You okay?” his father asks immediately upon picking up.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears in his eyes. “I just - had a dream and wanted to make sure - you’re okay.”

“Of course,” his dad says softly. “Of course I’m okay. It’s been a quiet night. Some fool’s goats got loose and half my deputies spent an hour trying to catch them.”

Stiles chokes out a laugh, more relief than anything.

“That’s it,” his dad says encouragingly. “I’m fine. You’re fine.”

Stiles shuts his eyes again. “I’m fine,” he echoes, and maybe if he says it enough times, it’ll become the truth. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Always,” his father says firmly. “I’ll see you in the morning, all right?”

“Bye,” Stiles says softly, and ends the call. He doesn’t go back inside, even though his skin’s breaking out in goosebumps. He bends in half, presses his forehead to his knees, and just breathes for a while. After a couple minutes, the front door opens behind him, and something heavy’s draped over his shoulders. Stiles looks up as Derek sits down next to him, presses a hot cup of tea into his hands. He looks at himself, the blanket from the back of the couch hanging over his shoulders.

“Thanks, Mom,” Stiles says without any real bite.

“Laugh it up,” Derek retorts mildly, his head turning to gaze out at the quiet street. Stiles wonders what he can hear. He takes a sip of the tea instead, overwhelmingly sweet.

“Where’d you find honey?” he asks accusingly.

Derek doesn’t look at him, just taps his nose. Stiles watches him watch the night. If Derek knows he’s being watched - and he almost certainly does - he doesn’t seem to care.

“Why are you here?” Stiles asks eventually. Scott’s his best friend; it makes sense why he’d come every other night, but he doesn’t understand why Derek bothers.

Derek looks at him briefly, then away again. “You’re pack,” he says, like that explains everything.

“Am I?” Stiles says, startled. Or perhaps, more accurately, the question is _Are you?_ He knows he and Scott and the others have their own ragtag little group, but Derek’s never quite been a part of it, even if they do end up over at his apartment more often than not. Things have changed a lot in the past couple of months, he supposes, and there was a lot of lost time in the past few weeks. Maybe Derek and Scott worked stuff out while he was - unavailable. He drinks his tea.

Derek makes him go back inside when he starts shivering despite the blanket, and herds him up the stairs despite his protests that he knows his way to his own bedroom. It’s a relief to climb into his bed, tugging his blankets up around his shoulders. Derek sinks back into Stiles’ desk chair, once again a dark shadow in the corner of the room. It’s unsettling, knowing he’s there.

“Are you going to stay there all night?” Stiles asks.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

“Maybe.”

“That doesn’t seem very interesting. Or comfortable.”

Derek doesn’t say anything. Stiles stares up at the ceiling for a while but he can’t fall asleep not knowing whether Derek’s watching him or not.

“Why don’t you come lay on the bed?”

“Why?” Derek asks suspiciously.

“Because I’m not going to be able to sleep with you staring at me,” Stiles retorts.

“I’m not staring at you,” Derek says, sounding offended.

“Then what are you doing?”

“...sitting,” Derek says after a moment.

“Sounds boring,” Stiles says. “At least if you’re laying down, you can fall asleep and you won’t wake up with your neck aching.”

There’s a long silence from the corner and then Stiles hears Derek get to his feet. There comes the sound of shifting cloth and then two soft thunks, like he’s kicked off his shoes. Stiles grins triumphantly and shifts onto his side.

“Stop gloating,” Derek mutters, the mattress dipping under him. “It’s not a flattering look on you.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles asks, rolling to look at his dim shape, gingerly settling down on the bed next to him. “Have you been cataloguing my flattering looks, Derek?”

“Shut up,” Derek says moodily, shoving at his shoulder hard enough to roll him back onto his other side. “This isn’t a slumber party. I’m not staying up all night whispering.”

Stiles snorts into his pillow. “You’re the one who brought me tea and a blanket earlier.” This earns him another sharp shove. He gives up with a grin, listening to Derek making himself comfortable next to him. Stiles can feel the heat of his body blazing off him, hotter than Scott. It’s a little weird having him there; in some ways, Derek’s a complete stranger. Stiles has only ever shared a bed with Scott, and Derek breathes differently - he smells different too, spicy, like an autumn day. It’s not a bad different, just...different.

It doesn’t stop Stiles from falling asleep and when he wakes up, Derek’s gone, and he’s heaved off half his blankets and his hoodie in the night, sweat that’s not from terror prickling hot at his spine.

-

The nights get easier with Scott and Derek always around. Scott gives up any pretense of being sneaky and starts showing up in the evenings before Stiles has even gone to bed. Sometimes he shows up earlier and they do their homework together. Sometimes Lydia and Kira and Malia appear as well. It’s nice.

Derek never shows up when he’s awake. Stiles isn’t even sure how he’s getting into the house. Maybe Scott gave him a key. Stiles supposes that would serve him right after how mad Melissa had been that time he’d gotten a key made for Scott’s house. He likes the nights that Derek comes over almost as much as the nights Scott comes over; if Derek worries about him, he doesn’t show it like Scott does, and it’s kind of nice not to feel like he’s causing someone to stress out about him. He’s fast at picking up when Stiles is slipping into a nightmare, usually waking him before he gets in too deep.

It starts to feel like a routine, especially after telling Derek several times that he can sleep on the bed before he starts doing it on his own. There’s something comforting about waking up and knowing that he isn’t alone. He grows so used to finding Derek or Scott next to him that he nearly panics the first time he wakes up alone, the bed cold next to him, and he ends up sitting in the kitchen for twenty minutes before Derek comes through the front door. Derek pauses when he sees Stiles, concern flickering over his features.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Stiles shakes his head and wonders if it’s out of line to ask where Derek was. It’s not like he’s required to be there. He’s sure Derek’s got his own life, even though he struggles to imagine Derek doing, like, his laundry, or washing dishes.

Maybe Derek sees the question on his face, though, because he scowls and says, “Your dad pulled me over. Gave me a ticket _and_ told me off for being late.”

Stiles gives a startled laugh, half at the fact that Derek got pulled over, and half at the fact that his dad knows Derek’s been coming over.

“He usually lets me in,” Derek says, like he’s heard Stiles’ thoughts. “Gave me his key.” He slaps it down on the table in front of Stiles with a sharp clink, and looks down at Stiles gravely. “Were you waiting for me?”

Stiles nods. “Seemed weird you weren’t here.” It’s not like he was worried, exactly, but Derek’s always been pretty dependable.

Derek looks at him for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. “Well,” he says eventually. “I’m here now. You can go to bed.”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m not really tired,” he says. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

Derek watches him for another long moment before he replies with a shrug of his own. He seems content to follow Stiles into the living room, where Stiles shoves _The Empire Strikes Back_ into the DVD player and flops down onto the couch.

 _“You’ve_ seen this, right?” he asks Derek, who rolls his eyes as he sits down next to Stiles.

“I did grow up in an actual house, not a cave,” he replies scathingly.

“Hey man, you never know,” Stiles retorts. “Scott grew up in a perfectly nice house and _he’s_ never seen it.”

“Heathen,” Derek mutters, and Stiles snorts gleefully.

Despite his earlier assertion that he wasn’t tired, Stiles falls asleep forty minutes into the movie, sinking deep into the couch cushions. He dreams he’s stabbing a knife into his stomach. Flies pour out of him as he digs his fingers in the wound, ripping it open. Something in his head is laughing, high and mocking; Stiles wakes with a snap, his stomach aching. He probably would have fallen off the couch if there hadn’t been arms looped around his chest, holding him tight.

“Hey, hey,” someone murmurs in his ear - Derek, his voice gentler than Stiles has ever heard it. Stiles is crying, his hands shaking, but he’s got to check, he’s got to see - His hands scrabble at his shirt, yanking it up so he can see the healing scar on his stomach. It’s still there, dark against his skin, but there’s no blood, no flies. He slumps back against Derek in relief, breathing unsteadily. Derek’s body is hot against his back, the warmth seeping into him. He can feel Derek’s heart beating against his back and it helps; Stiles shuts his eyes and tries to match his breathing to Derek’s and slowly, slowly starts to feel normal again. Derek doesn’t let go of him; he loosens his grip at one point and Stiles grabs his wrists. “Please - don’t,” he says, eyes still squeezed shut, and Derek freezes.

“Okay,” Stiles says after a while. He releases Derek’s wrists and straightens; Derek lets go of him then, arms falling to his sides. Stiles twists to give him an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

Derek shakes his head slowly. “It’s fine,” he says. “If that’s what you need - it’s fine.”

Stiles stares at him, caught off guard by the expression on his face, an oddly open mixture of sincerity and concern. The tips of his ears are pink. “Oh,” Stiles says. He scrubs absently at his face, wiping at the drying trails of saltwater on his cheeks, and sneaks a glance at Derek. “I. I think I’m going to try going to bed.”

Upstairs, things are different. Stiles is uncomfortable with Derek there – or maybe uncomfortable is the wrong word. He’s hyper aware of Derek’s movements, the sound of him shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his shoes too loud in the quiet room. It’s weird with Derek being there when he’s awake; Stiles doesn’t know what to do or say, so he just crawls into bed and lays on his side, stiff as Derek lays down next to him.

Derek picks up on it, because he says, after a while of uncomfortable silence, “I can leave.”

Stiles exhales, frustrated. “You’re fine,” he says. “I like having you here.” That’s true. He twists to look at Derek, brow slightly furrowed. “What did you mean, if that’s what I need? What do you think I need?”

“I don’t think you - ” Derek stops. The room’s dark, but Stiles can tell he’s not looking at him. “Touch,” Derek says, more quietly. Stiles makes an inquisitive noise, caught off guard, and Derek says, “If you want - if you want space, I can give you that. But if you want - sometimes - ” He cuts himself off again. Stiles can almost _feel_ the embarrassment rolling off him.

“Oh,” Stiles says, suddenly understanding. He looks past the dark mountain of Derek’s body and stares at the wall for a minute. “You know, I read that in the wild, injured wolves get groomed by the rest of their pack for comfort - ”

“I’m not a wolf, Stiles,” Derek says irritably. “I’m just saying a fucking hug is nice once in a while.”

Stiles stares at him, features obscured by darkness. “Never put you down as a hug type of guy.”

“I’m not a fucking robot,” Derek says, angry now. “You don’t know a fucking thing about me.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says mildly, not stung by Derek’s ire. “I’m getting that.”

Derek exhales harshly. Stiles drops back onto his side, staring at the opposite wall now, where his murder wall - as Lydia calls it - is still half disassembled. “You can, if you want,” he says after a while. “Touch me, I mean. If I haven’t pissed you off too much.”

Derek’s quiet for a while. “What do you want me to do?” he asks eventually, tone moody.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. He licks his lips, weirdly nervous. “Um. You could - put your arm, uh, around me.”

“You’re making this way weirder than it needs to be,” Derek grumbles, shifting closer. He loops a heavy arm over Stiles’ waist, pulling Stiles back against his body.

“Excuse me for being a little weirded out I’m being spooned by a dude who barely tolerates me,” Stiles retorts.

Derek’s quiet for much longer this time before he asks, “Is that how you see me?”

Stiles opens his mouth and then closes it. “No,” he says eventually. “I don’t know, dude. I know we’ve saved each other’s lives and shit, but I know I piss you off.”

Derek sighs softly. “You do,” he agrees, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t like you. We’ve all got our negative qualities. I know I - ” He stops for a moment and then says, “ - need work. But I wouldn’t be here if I disliked you.”

“Oh,” Stiles says dumbly, and it makes sense, really. He feels stupid for not thinking about it earlier. “I, uh, I really appreciate it, you know?”

“Uh huh,” Derek says, sounding skeptical.

“I mean it,” Stiles says, folding his arm over Derek’s. He finds Derek’s wrist in the dark and squeezes it. “I do.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I know.”

-

When Stiles wakes in the morning, Derek’s still there, arm curled tight around Stiles’ stomach, forehead pressed to the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles can’t remember the last time he woke up feeling so content.

-

By the time Christmas break rolls around, Stiles is down to one nightmare a week, two at the most. Life’s starting to feel normal again; he gets cold now because it’s cold out, and that empty hole in his chest doesn’t feel so empty. Scott doesn’t come over as often but Derek - Derek still comes over almost every night, though half the time Stiles doesn’t wake up, and instead opens his eyes in the morning to find Derek in bed with him, his warm body curved around Stiles. Stiles is getting better and he would say something...but he doesn’t. Maybe he’s being greedy, but he really likes waking up with someone next to him, the heat of a body pressed against his. They don’t really talk at all; when Stiles has nightmares, Derek doesn’t ask what they’re about, just holds him tight and murmurs quiet words of comfort.

The week before Christmas break, Stiles dreams of the night at the vet’s office when he stabbed Scott in the stomach. It’s the dream he has most often, the hardest to shake because it actually happened, and he remembers it vividly still - the noise Scott made, the way it felt shoving the sword through him, the black lines on his face when Void pulled the chaos from him. Derek holds him as he shakes, sets his chin against Stiles’ shoulder.

“Is it ever gonna stop?” Stiles mumbles into his pillow, when his breathing’s slowed enough that he can speak. “Is it - will this ever go away?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says quietly. “I had nightmares for years. After the fire. It never really stops, but it gets easier.”

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. Derek sighs softly and rubs his cheek against Stiles’ neck. It’s something he’s been doing lately, and Stiles finds it weirdly comforting, even though the rough scrape of Derek’s stubble against the tender skin of his neck makes his whole body prickle the way it used to when he thought about Lydia. It makes him nervous.

Stiles waits a couple days before he talks to Scott, trying to puzzle out the strange new feeling in his chest, wanting to see if it’s just a temporary thing. He tests it, coming back from the bathroom one night and climbing back into bed. He lays facing Derek and looks at him, really _looks_ at him for maybe the first time ever. Derek’s face is soft in sleep, though it’s been softer lately anyway, the angry douchebag he and Scott first met in the woods a year ago fading away. Derek shifts toward Stiles in his sleep, pressing their foreheads together, and Stiles shuts his eyes.

-

“I think I have a thing for Derek,” Stiles tells Scott three days later. It’s the second day of winter break and they’re in his room, hanging out just to hang out, no supernatural stuff going on for the first time in what seems like forever.

Scott grins lopsidedly, setting down his Xbox controller. “Really?”

“Really,” Stiles says, fiddling anxiously with his own. “Uh. Is that weird?”

“Nah, man,” Scott says, and he looks truly pleased. “I think that’s great - for both of you.”

Stiles can feel his cheeks growing warm. “We aren’t - he doesn’t know.”

“Are you going to say anything?”

“Maybe,” Stiles replies, but he doesn’t. Maybe he’s being greedy again, not saying anything, but he keeps letting Derek stay over, keeps soaking up his warmth. He’s never cold anymore, the nightmares infrequent, and part of him’s afraid that if Derek doesn’t feel the same way, he’s going to stop coming over, and Stiles doesn’t want that.

Stiles and his dad don’t do much for Christmas - it was Stiles’ mom’s favorite holiday, so they always put up a tiny tree for her and then don’t really talk about it. Sometimes they go over to the McCall’s for a shared dinner, but Melissa’s working this year, so they just order out for Chinese food and settle into the living room to watch _It’s a Wonderful Life_. Stiles is just about to shovel a huge forkful of kung pao chicken into his mouth when there’s a knock on the front door. He freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth, eyes flickering between his dad and the door. His father sighs and gets to his feet. Stiles shoves his food into his mouth and chews furiously, a frown furrowing his brow when his dad opens the door and Stiles sees Derek standing out on the porch. He swallows hard.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks, leaning over the arm of the couch. “Are we in trouble?”

Derek gives him a bewildered look. “It’s Christmas,” he says, like that explains anything.

Stiles’ dad sighs. “I told Derek to stop by if he wasn’t doing anything.”

“Oh,” Stiles says blankly.

Derek gives him a sarcastic look. “That okay with you?”

Stiles blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, uh - we’ve got enough food to feed an army. Help yourself.”

Derek does, filling a plate with food and slumping down on the couch in between Stiles and his dad. They eat mostly in silence. Stiles’ dad asks where Peter is and Derek scowls and says he took a trip to Los Angeles and Derek doesn’t know - or care - when he comes back. The sheriff gives Stiles this nervous sideways glance like he’s afraid he’s done something wrong, but Stiles just snorts into his pork fried rice.

He falls asleep after eating, and when he wakes up his dad is gone, left on his overnight shift. Derek’s gone too, but when Stiles picks up his head he can hear movement in the kitchen, the sound of water running. He stumbles out there, running a sleepy hand through his hair, and finds Derek standing at the sink, washing the dishes from dinner. For a moment Stiles just stands there, watching the broad line of his shoulders and the subtle shift of the muscles in his back as he scrubs at a plate.

Derek glances over his shoulder at him, and Stiles says, “You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Derek replies, turning back to the sink. “Thanks for the food.”

“Thank my dad; he paid for it,” Stiles says. “Here, let me - “ He hops up onto the counter next to the sink, grabbing a dish cloth and reaching into the drying rack to wipe off a wet cup. It feels stupidly normal. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Derek look so domestic.

Derek glances over at him, his expression serene, and says, “What are you thinking about?”

Stiles’ mouth tightens nervously. He carefully sets down the plate he’s drying and says, “Will you come here?” Derek looks pointedly at the scant three feet of distance separating them already. “Just bear with me,” Stiles insists. “Please?”

Derek takes his hands out of the warm water, shaking them off as he steps in front of Stiles, eyebrows raised. His waist’s just inches from Stiles’ knees. Stiles leans toward him, heart banging in his chest.

“Can I,” he tries. “Is it okay - “ and then he just goes for it, closing the distance between them, pressing his mouth to Derek’s. It’s almost too far; he nearly overbalances before he’s even got a sense of what kissing Derek feels like. Derek catches him with two hands to his chest, pushes him back gently, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Shit,” Stiles says, flushing bright splotchy red. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

Derek just watches him, a slight furrow to his brow. Stiles can feel himself growing redder and redder. “I’m sorry,” he says again, jabbing a vague hand in the direction of the living room. “I should just, uh - ” He tries to slip off the counter, but Derek presses his hand against Stiles’ chest, stopping him from escaping.

“Don’t,” Derek says softly. He puts his other hand on Stiles’ knee and leans in, brushing his nose against Stiles’ cheek before he tilts his head and meets Stiles in a soft kiss, the press of their lips a slow, unhurried drag. Derek’s hand moves from his knee to his waist, tugging him to the edge of the counter so their chests press together; Stiles can feel Derek’s heart beating against his, fast, like he’s nervous too, and that’s somehow reassuring. It gives him the confidence to put his hands to Derek’s shoulders, one hand curling around the back of his neck. He keeps it there when Derek breaks the kiss and presses their foreheads together, fingers rubbing against the soft hair at the base of Derek’s neck.

“This is okay?” Stiles asks tentatively, closing his eyes.

“This is okay,” Derek confirms. He rubs a hand up Stiles’ side, slow and comforting. “Are _you_ okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and then his eyes start to burn. “You, uh, you know that hug you offered a couple weeks ago? I think I’ll take it now.”

Derek makes a soft noise that’s either amused or sympathetic - or both - and lifts his arms, pulling Stiles into a tight embrace. Stiles exhales shakily and folds his arms around Derek’s neck, pressing his face into the crook of Derek’s neck. He smells good, like aftershave and cedar.

“I’m sorry for thinking you weren’t a hug guy,” Stiles mumbles. “This is the best hug I’ve ever had.”

Derek startles him by laughing, quick and sharp like he’s surprised himself. Stiles stares at him; it’s the first time he’s ever heard Derek laugh. Derek just quirks an eyebrow at him. “I think your dad would be offended if he heard you saying that.”

“That’s true,” Stiles says loyally. “He does give great hugs.”

Derek snorts, putting his hands on Stiles’ thighs and squeezing lightly. “You sure you’re okay?”

Stiles draws in a slow breath and thinks about it. He’s got his dad, and he’s got Scott and the rest of the pack, and now he’s got Derek, too. “Yeah,” he says confidently. “Yeah, I am.”


	75. Chapter 75

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "protester and police officer AU"
> 
>  **PAIRING:** Sterek pre-slash
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, Werewolves are Known AU, Deputy!Stiles, Professor!Derek

Stiles coughs as he ducks through the smoke-filled square, eyes tearing up as he tries to spot anyone he knows - or anyone at all, really, but the smoke is thicker than he expected, and the only light is coming from the smouldering ruins of a burnt out car at the end of the block. He can hear other people moving around in the smoke, yelling and calling for each other, but Stiles has no way of knowing whether they’re friend or foe. He’s not sure what happened to his mask, except someone ripped it off his face while he was trying to help out a woman who had fallen.

Stiles pauses to lean up against the side of a building, wheezing as he tries to catch his breath. This is bad. He got knocked down even before his mask got stolen, and he’s pretty sure he’s got at least one broken rib. Even without all the smoke, it’d be hard to breathe, but this isn’t just smoke; judging by the weird purple hue, someone’s burning wolfsbane. Too much of it and everyone will get seriously ill, not just the werewolves, and if anyone dies because of it, that’s a murder charge, if not terrorism.

“Fucking hunters,” Stiles mutters, wiping at his streaming eyes. He’d give anything for a hot shower right now. Or a beer. Oh god, a shower beer. That’d be fucking divine.

He feels his way around the side of the building, hoping to find a little shelter from the smoke in the alleyway. It’s certainly a little easier to breathe in there, though it’s still hard to make anything out beyond the dark shape of a dumpster. Whatever; it’s quiet, and the air doesn’t hurt his eyes so much. Stiles’ radio has been going off like crazy, but he manages to cut in and radio in his position. He slumps against the wall while he waits for a response, dragging a hand through his sweaty hair as he does his best to ignore the pain in his rib cage.

Someone’s just calling his name over the radio when Stiles hears something else - something moves further off down the alley, a stifled sound, like whatever it is is trying to be quiet. Stiles tenses, turning down the radio until it’s just a faint murmur at his shoulder.

“Hello?” he calls, hand one hand going to his gun, the other to his flashlight. He curses quietly when he tries to turn it on, forgetting the the bulb shattered when he was knocked down earlier. He pulls out his phone instead - it’s miraculously undamaged - and turns on the camera flash, which only illuminates a couple hazy feet in front of him. “Hello?” he calls again. “Beacon County Sheriff’s Department. Is someone there?”

No one replies, but Stiles hears a faint scuffing noise, like someone’s trying to pull themselves out of sight. He frowns, thumbing open the latch on his holster as he steps forward, listening hard. It’s still nearly impossible to see; he just barely stops himself from jumping when he rounds the corner of the dumpster and nearly runs into a mannequin. Another couple of feet and he can see the end of the alley - vaguely, but distinct enough he can see there’s only about thirty feet between him and the brick wall. Stiles takes another quiet step forward, aware that he’s blocking the only way out of here, which makes this a dangerous situation - not like the entire evening hasn’t been dangerous enough.

He can _hear_ breathing now, quick and pained, and the only place left to hide is beyond a pile of half collapsed cardboard boxes and bags of trash. Stiles stops, but he can’t see anything. “Come on, buddy,” he says cajolingly. “Can you come out for me? Are you hurt?”

There’s no answer. Stiles sighs internally. He doesn’t want to pull his gun, but he has no idea who’s on the other side of the trash pile, or if they’re dangerous. He _should_ call for backup, but with all the chaos going on in the rest of the city, it could be hours before he gets any help. He draws his weapon but doesn’t turn off the safety, unwilling to shoot unless he really needs to, and moves around the edge of the pile.

There’s a man crouched on the ground, his back up against the brick wall. There’s blood running down the side of his face, but what concerns Stiles is the way the man’s glaring at him, his eyes flickering electric blue. He snarls when Stiles takes a step closer, a nasty, feral noise that rips of out his throat and stops Stiles in his tracks.

He doesn’t have a ton of experience with werewolves, all right? Sure, he got training on them in the academy, but they tend to stick with their packs in tight-knit communities, and they’re not known to be troublemakers. Before tonight, he could have counted the number of werewolves he’s met on one hand, and his best friend is one of those, but Scott’s more the exception than the norm as far as werewolves go.

Stiles hesitates before holstering his gun. Blue eyes mean he’s killed before, but that doesn’t mean he’s dangerous. Stiles has been at this job long enough to know that nothing’s black and white like that. He’s got a duty, anyway; this wolf looks hurt, and it’s not like he’s got wolfsbane bullets on him that could do any real damage. So he puts his gun away, the werewolf watching his every movement.

Stiles offers him a cautious smile, lifting his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Hey man,” he says easily. “How’s it going? Are you okay?”

The werewolf stares at him, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He doesn’t say anything in reply, his eyes fixed on Stiles, his expression guarded. Stiles isn’t sure he’s able to control himself; his eyes continue to flash bright blue in frantic intervals, apparently at random. Okay.

Stiles draws in a deep breath; he’s not going to get anywhere smelling like unease. “Crazy night, huh?” he asks, trying a different tactic. He crouches down, thinking that maybe the werewolf will be put at ease if they’re at the same eye level, but the werewolf bares his teeth threateningly, pressing his back against the wall like he’s hoping that if he presses hard enough he might be able to slip through it. “Not really the kind of night you want to be hanging around in an alley, though,” he continues, keeping his tone gentle, watching the werewolf carefully. “Any reason you’re sticking around here? Where’s your pack?”

The werewolf blinks, looking a little startled. “Got separated,” he admits cautiously, eyes flickering around the alleyway. His voice isn’t as deep as Stiles expected it to be, though it’s a little hard to tell when he’s talking around the fangs in his mouth. When Scott talks with his fangs in, it sounds like he’s eating gravel.

“Okay,” Stiles says encouragingly. “Do you know where they might have ended up?”

The werewolf shakes his head, starting to look panicked. Stiles feels for him; he got separated from his mom in a crowd once, and that had been bad enough. He can’t imagine how it might feel to lose your family in a sudden riot of violence and poisonous smoke.

“I’ll help you find them,” Stiles offers. “Okay?”

The werewolf watches him for a long moment, eyes surging to luminous blue and then back to a glassy grey-green, before he nods.

“Okay,” Stiles says again, relaxing a little. “All right. What’s your name? I’m technically Deputy Stilinski, but you can call me Stiles.”

The werewolf considers him for a moment, and seems about to reply, his lips parting, when he freezes, eyes widening. Stiles frowns and opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong when the sound of an explosion somewhere in the near distance fills the air, vibrating the concrete under their feet.

 _“Jesus,”_ Stiles hisses, as the radio at his shoulder bursts into life, muted voices pouring in. “Did you - ”

The werewolf swings his head around to stare down the length of the alley, his nostrils flaring. Whatever he smells makes him freeze again. “Turn off your light,” he whispers.

“What?”

 _“Turn it off,”_ the werewolf says insistently, swinging his eyes - now blue again - to Stiles. He sounds desperate, and a little scared, and maybe that’s why Stiles obeys. He fumbles to get the light on his phone turned off, and scrambles across the alley as there’s a rush of noise from out in the plaza, a lot of people yelling. He presses his back against the wall next to the werewolf, tucking his knees to his chest, and turning off his radio. He’s scant inches from the werewolf now, so close he can feel the heat from the man’s body, but he doesn’t even get a lip curl this time; the werewolf’s head is turned toward the mouth of the alley, listening intently. Stiles watches the werewolf, and when the werewolf stiffens and hunches down lower, he does the same, blindly trusting him. Sure enough, a group of people, their forms dark shapes in the smoky air, amble slowly past the alley, talking amongst themselves in low voices. One of them beams a sharp light down the alley and Stiles holds his breath, but he and the werewolf are hidden behind the pile of trash, and whoever it is doesn’t seem to be looking too hard, because they move on after a moment.

He doesn’t move until he can no longer hear their voices, and the werewolf’s relaxed a little. “Hunters?” Stiles asks quietly, and the werewolf nods.

“With rifles.”

“Shit,” Stiles breathes, stretching his legs out on the cold concrete before them. This isn’t the first night of protests, and it probably won’t be the last, but the hunters are getting out of control if they’re burning wolfsbane and openly carrying guns - and exploding things, like whatever blew up just a minute ago.

“Derek,” the werewolf says after a moment of silence, and Stiles lifts his head.

“Huh?”

“You asked for my name,” the werewolf says. “It’s Derek.”

“Oh!” Stiles says, startled. “Hi.”

Derek nods, his eyes flaring blue in the gloom of the alley. There’s not much light, but they’re close enough that Stiles can vaguely make out his face, the sharp line of his nose made soft by the haze in the air. He’s still breathing fast, in quick, sharp pulls like it hurts when he does it, a ragged, wet edge to the sound of each breath. Stiles frowns, leaning in a little closer. Breathing in deep, he catches the metallic tang of blood.

“Where are you hurt?” he asks sharply.

Derek leans away from him. “I’m - fine,” he says flatly.

“Bullshit,” Stiles retorts. “Let me see it.”

Derek pulls his lips back from his teeth in a grimace but Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and finally, grudgingly, Derek peels open his leather jacket to reveal his shirt’s torn, and there’s a deep wound over his ribs. Stiles gets his phone back out and flips on the light, hissing when he sees how badly the skin’s been ripped open, Derek’s shirt saturated with blood.

“It’s - it’s not healing,” Derek says uncertainly.

“Jesus,” Stiles breathes, leaning in for a better look. “What happened?”

“I got - hit by a car,” Derek says haltingly. “People were panicking, trying to get away from - ” He cuts himself off, looking ashamed, and when Stiles gives him a curious look, he says grudgingly, “The cops.”

Stiles shakes his head quietly. “May I?” he asks making a motion like he wants to lift Derek’s shirt. Derek does it for him, wincing when the fabric sticks to half-dried blood. “Tell me about your pack,” Stiles says, trying to distract Derek from the pain. It’s so hard to tell under the light from his phone, which throws everything in harsh black and white. The blood seeping from the wound in Derek’s side looks dark - too dark. Stiles bites down on his lip. Wolfsbane poisoning? That’d explain why it isn’t healing.

Derek exhales softly somewhere near Stiles’ ear, warm breath ruffling Stiles’ hair. “My sister,” he says. He speaks in these sharp bursts, like it’s beginning to pain him to even get out that much. “Laura Hale. She’s - “

“I saw her today,” Stiles says, nodding. She’d been one of the speakers at the rally, passionate and well-spoken. Much better than the opposition; the hunters’ main spokesperson, Gerard Argent, is dull enough to put anyone to sleep. “She’s your alpha?”

Derek nods as Stiles leans back on his heels, trying to figure out what to do with him. He’s sure the city’s emergency services are overwhelmed with casualties. What, then? “Came to see her talk,” Derek says dazedly, drawing in a rough breath that sounds like it _hurts._ When Stiles lifts the light so he can see Derek’s face, his pupils don’t react; they’re blown wide, only a thin ring of flickering blue light around the edges. That’s _bad._

“You didn’t come to join the rally?” Stiles asks, carefully keeping his tone even as he unsnaps one of the pouches hanging off his utility belt. He’s got more supplies in his cruiser, but he’s not sure he could get Derek to his cruiser. He’s got enough, though; this was part of the academy training on werewolves too, and while it’s not entirely departmental policy to carry wolfsbane on your person, Stiles’ dad always did it, and Stiles is nothing if not his father’s son (that, and he’s saved Scott’s ass enough times to know that sometimes you need to move fast, and it’s important to be prepared).

“No,” Derek says slowly. “I’mma…academic. Don’t. Like crowds.”

Stiles looks up from his belt, alarmed by Derek’s sudden change in speech pattern. Shining his light at Derek’s face, he’s even more alarmed to see Derek’s nose has begun bleeding, thick black liquid rolling over his lips and dripping off his chin.

“All right,” Stiles says a little frantically, his fingers finally curling around the small bottle of pills. Each capsule is smaller than the eraser on a pencil, and contains the ashes of the fifty most common strains of wolfsbane - hopefully one of those fifty is what the hunters are burning. It’s probably not going to heal Derek completely, not with the smoke still lingering in the air, but hopefully it’ll arrest his quick downward spiral and let _some_ of his healing started. He offers the pill to Derek. “You want to pop this for me?”

Derek takes it obligingly, though he misses his mouth on the first try, heavy eyebrows furrowing as he tries again and misses a second time. “Okay,” Stiles says slowly, reaching out and plucking the pill from his fingers. “Open up.”

Derek blinks and opens his mouth obediently, and that’s worrying enough; when Stiles first came down the alleyway, Derek snarled at him when he drew too close. Now he’s in a bad enough state that he’s willing to take a pill - be _fed_ a pill - from a perfect stranger.

Stiles pops the pill into his mouth like a mama bird feeding her chick and Derek swallows without complaint, his pale eyes lidded, blood still dripping down his chin. Stiles watches him anxiously, not sure how long it’ll take to take effect. Derek barely seems to even realize Stiles is there with him, his eyes settling shut.

“Hey,” Stiles says anxiously, not wanting him to pass out. “Talk to me, man. You said you’re an academic. Tell me what you study.”

Derek doesn’t reply and Stiles curses, leaning forward to press two fingers to Derek’s throat, seeking his pulse. It’s there, but it’s erratic, and Stiles nearly pitches all the way forward when Derek suddenly groans, his hand snapping up to wrap around Stiles’ wrist. Stiles freezes with his fingers still pressed against Derek’s neck, a little nervous about the strength he can feel in Derek’s grip. Derek opens his eyes and they’re burning blue again, but the light’s steady this time. Derek looks at Stiles and his brow furrows.

“Who?” Derek wonders.

“Stiles,” Stiles tells him, swallowing anxiously. “Stiles Stilinski, Beacon County Sheriff’s Department. Remember?”

Derek stares at him for a long moment, an almost wondering look on his face, before he says, “Oh,” and lets go of Stiles’ wrist. Stiles sits back on his heels again, watching Derek intently. “What did you give me?”

“Wolfsbane antidote,” Stiles tells him. “How do you feel?”

Derek scrubs a hand over his face and then opens his jacket. They both peer down at the wound in his side. “Looks like it’s stopped bleeding,” Stiles observes.

“Doesn’t hurt as much,” Derek agrees. He looks at Stiles again, frowning a little, and Stiles rocks on his heels, a little uncomfortable under Derek’s intense gaze.

“Well,” Stiles says, after a long moment passes and Derek doesn’t say anything. “If you think you can walk, we should probably get out of here. That pill helped you out, but there’s still a ton of wolfsbane in the air. You’ll get sick again soon if you don’t get out of the area.”

Derek nods and carefully unfolds himself from the ground, using the brick wall behind him to level himself to his feet. He sways a little when he pushes away from the wall, and grimaces but doesn’t protest when Stiles supports him with an arm under his shoulders, careful to not touch to the wound on his side.

They move slowly. Stiles watches Derek listen to the city around them and nod the okay that it’s safe to emerge from the alley. The plaza’s mostly empty; the car’s still burning at the end of the block, but the air seems a little less hazy than it did before he found Derek. Stiles uses his free hand to turn the volume on his radio back up and he and Derek pick their way across the square, listening as Stiles’ coworkers coordinate. It sounds like things are mostly back under control at this point; there’s been a lot of arrests, enough that they’re bringing in buses to transport all the detainees.

Stiles steers them toward where he left his patrol car, thinking that maybe he can give Derek a ride back to his house, or to the hospital, or wherever he wants to go. Stiles isn’t feeling all that enthusiastic; he wishes he could crawl into the backseat of the cruiser and take a nap, but he knows he’s got a long night ahead of him. His bruised rib aches at the thought.

A block past the plaza, past a series of shops with their front windows shattered, they start to see other signs of life. Stiles waves at a fellow officer who’s holding a bunched up t-shirt to a woman’s head. The other deputy waves back, but he’s too busy talking into his radio to chat. A group of scared-looking teenagers streams past them; they see Stiles and Derek with his eyes glowing blue and they all yelp, sprinting off into the gloom of the evening.

“What, are we the stuff of nightmares now?” Stiles complains.

Derek doesn’t reply; he’s been quiet since they left the alley. Stiles hears him sniffing the air and drudges up a smile. “You know, I’m not smelling my best right now. Give me a hot shower and - ”

“No,” Derek says impatiently. “It’s - “ He breaks off as there’s a shout behind them. They both spin, Stiles tensing as he tries to gauge whether the approaching figure is friend or foe, but Derek makes a relieved noise and staggers off down the sidewalk toward the stranger, who rips off the gas mask they’re wearing to reveal themselves as Laura Hale.

“Oh, Der,” Stiles hears her sigh, throwing her arms around him. It’s kind of amazing how broad-shouldered a man as Derek can hunch himself inward, tucking his face against Laura’s neck. Stiles watches in awe as black lines go whipping up Laura’s arms. He’s seen Scott do that before; she’s pulling Derek’s pain away. “God, I was so worried about you! Where were you?”

“Scared,” Derek tells her, his voice muffled. “Hurt. Hiding. Stiles helped me.”

Laura lifts her head, giving Stiles an appraising look. “Thank you, deputy,” she says softly. “The Hale pack’s in your debt.”

“Oh, no,” Stiles protests, his cheeks going pink. “I was just doing my job.”

Laura gives him a smile that’s mostly teeth. “I insist you come over for dinner,” she says, letting go of Derek with one arm, shoving her hand around in her pocket until she finds a business card, which she offers him. “When all this - “ She gestures around, at the smoky air and the shattered windows. “ - has calmed down a little.”

“All right,” Stiles says slowly, sticking the card in a pocket. “Well - you guys should get out of here. They’ll probably institute a curfew soon, and this air’s not doing anyone any favors.”

Laura nods as Derek peels himself away from her. He looks a little better than he did in the alley, more color to his solemn face. “Thank you,” he says seriously. “I would have died in that alley.”

“I’m here to help,” Stiles says, and he really means that; he joined the force because of the stories his dad used to tell about being sheriff, and how it felt to help people in need.

“Call me,” Laura says seriously, putting a hand on Derek’s arm and starting to steer him away. “You like steak?”

“Nothing better!” Stiles calls after them. He waits until they’ve disappeared into the darkness before he exhales slowly. His hands are starting to shake, but he curls them against his thighs, refusing to give in. There’s a lot of work ahead of him; it’s shaping up to be the longest day of his life, but he’s got people to help and the thought of a home-cooked meal in the not so distant future to help carry him through.


	76. Chapter 76

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** "Stiles as a professional cuddler, where he offers a range of services, from spooning to hand holding to quiet murmuring. Also, there are a lot of health benefits from being cuddled regularly and Derek happens to be in need of said benefits ;__;"
> 
>  **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, werewolves are known

Kira is probably the closest thing to a friend Derek has at work, a relationship that has its positives and negatives. Derek doesn’t really go out of his way to make friends with his coworkers, preferring to keep his head down and get his work done, but it’s nice to eat lunch with someone, to have someone say “Have a good weekend!” even if all Derek’s doing that weekend is what he does every weekend: workout, go to the library, watch a new foreign film (last weekend’s was _De grønne slagtere,_ and he hasn’t been able bring himself to eat meat since).

The bad thing about being friends with Kira is that the longer they know each other, the more comfortable they are in each other’s presence, the more Kira seems to feel like she’s got to look after Derek for some reason. Kira’s a pretty empathetic person anyway; all the ladies in the office like telling her their horror stories about dating because Kira makes the best horrified faces in reaction to their sordid tales, but she takes it a step further with Derek. And, to a certain extent, Derek doesn’t mind _that_ much; Kira reminds him of Laura in some ways, the way she gently teases him about his diet, and leaves little notes on his desk about inconsequential things - but then she takes an interest in his well being: his _mental_  wellbeing.

It starts innocently enough, when she asks him about his pack. Everyone in the office knows Derek’s a werewolf, even if most of them seem to think it’s impolite to mention it. He and Kira are friends, though, and it’s not like he’s offended by her asking, though it still stings a little - it always will - when he has to remind her that he doesn’t have a pack, and he sees it dawn on her face.

“Oh,” she says, making that horrified face the gossipy ladies in the office love so much. “Oh, no, the fire, I forgot - oh _no!”_ Kira’s cheeks go bright red. “I shouldn’t have said that - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - ”

That’s the other thing about Kira, Derek thinks dully. Sometimes she doesn’t stop to think before she speaks. It usually doesn’t bother him, but the loss of his family hurts immensely, even eight years later.

Kira retreats for a while after that, too embarrassed to broach such personal topics for a while, but she’s back at it a few weeks later, gently figuring out what he does with his spare time, and Derek tells her not much.

“You don’t ever hang out with people?” she asks, her eyes wide and concerned, and Derek has to admit that no he doesn’t, not really. He doesn’t really have friends. (That’s another thing about Kira, he thinks. He can’t ever seem to lie to her.)

He ends up with an open-ended invitation to Kira’s house “any time you feel like it,” and a more firm invitation to dinner. That night. Derek goes, but only because he doesn’t seem to be able to say no to Kira either. It’s those eyes, he thinks grimly, sitting still as a statue on Kira’s couch while her three-year-old son stares at him from the floor, his thumb in his mouth. He can’t resist her liquid black eyes. Kira’s husband is an alpha, the type of confident, kind-hearted alpha Derek _wishes_ he had. He claps Derek on the back and calls him “dude,” and for the first time in years, Derek wonders if maybe he’s isolated himself from the world a little too much.

He gets a little angry at Kira after that, for shaking up the fragile world he’s crafted around himself, and avoids all in-depth conversation with her for nearly two weeks, after which he realizes it’s not _her_ fault he’s such a loner. Then he’s just mad at himself.

Kira’s next point of attack is his love life, and this is where Derek starts to get frustrated. If she wants to be his friend, fine, but she doesn’t get to butt into his life like this. He’s lived alone for eight years, and he’s been perfectly all right like that. He barely remembers what it’s like to share his space with another person, and he doesn’t miss it.

Except, he does, and he doesn’t even realize it until Kira brings it up. He resents her for that, too, and gets his own little payback by filling her coffee mug with decaf instead of regular, and then he sits at his desk and stares blankly at his computer screen, wondering if he should try to start dating. The thought scares him; he’s been on his own for so long. When was the last time he kissed someone? When was the last time he _touched_ someone? Derek touches his throat uncertainly, palms sweating.

That night, he signs up for a dating site and carefully fills out his profile, and when he wakes up the next morning he’s got fourteen messages sitting in his inbox. Derek panics and deletes them all, then deletes his profile entirely. He doesn’t remember how to meet people, or how to hold a conversation longer than it takes to fill his cup of coffee and walk out of the break room. He’s a _mess._

He confesses this to Kira at lunch because she’s his friend, isn’t she? And this is her fault, anyway. Kira looks at him with her eyes shining and says, “I could set you up with someone.”

Derek stares at her, his mouth going dry. “I - I don’t know about that.”

Kira tilts her head to one side consideringly. “We could make it a double date. I’ll find you someone and then you and them and Scott and I could go out.”

Derek thinks about how he’d look sitting at a table next to Scott, who’s a much better and more interesting person than he could ever hope to be, and shakes his head. Whoever Kira found him would take one look at him and turn to Scott instead.

“Hm,” Kira says thoughtfully.

They eat the rest of their lunches in silence, and as Derek’s packing up his empty tupperware, Kira tilts her chin to look at him. “I’ve got an idea,” she says, and Derek stills. “Scott’s got a friend who’s a professional cuddler.”

Derek frowns, confused. “What’s that?”

Kira gestures vaguely. “He’ll come over to your house and hold your hand while you watch a movie, or snuggle with you in bed. You know.”

Derek _doesn’t_ know. His frown deepens. He doesn’t get it. “So he’s like a friend you can hire?”

“A little more intimate than that,” Kira says with a smile.

“So he’s an escort?”

“A little less intimate than that,” Kira says. “It’s strictly PG. Your clothes stay on. There’s no sex.”

“Oh,” Derek says, but he’s more confused than ever. Kira’s looking at him intently, clearly waiting on an answer, but he’s not ready to give her one. “Let me think about it.”

Kira beams, and that part of him that’s always eager to please preens.

Derek googles it later that night, and he’s startled to find that professional cuddling is apparently a thing people actually do - and like Kira said, it’s got nothing to do with sex - the physical comfort of another person, nothing more. He’s intrigued despite himself; when he thinks about laying in bed with someone, just sharing the same space, his heart aches a little.

When Derek gets to work the next morning, he marches straight to Kira’s cubicle before he loses his nerve. “What does this entail?” he demands.

Kira looks delighted. “You want to do it?”

“Maybe,” Derek says guardedly. “If you give me more details.”

“Well, I don’t know that much about the process,” Kira admits. “I think you and Stiles would have a meeting beforehand to get to know each other and lay down rules - and make sure that you’re going to get along, too. That’s important.”

Derek leans against the cubicle wall, thinking about it. If he could get himself comfortable around one stranger, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to meet new people after that. Maybe if he just gets himself back in the groove - “Okay,” he says, before he can change his mind.

“That’s _awesome!”_ Kira yells and, to Derek’s surprise, leaps to her feet and hugs him. He hasn’t been this close to anyone in - in a very long time. “I’m so proud of you!” she says delightedly, and he makes himself relax. This won’t be so bad, he tells himself. “Here,” Kira says, letting him go so she can pull a pad of post-it notes toward her. “Here’s his number. Just tell him I referred you.”

“Thanks,” Derek says slowly, accepting the post-it. He looks at the number and the name written above it in Kira’s neat cursive. _Stiles Stilinski._

-

It takes Derek two days to work up the nerve to call. He does it on his lunch break, ducking outside and huddling against the brick wall by the back door to the building. Kira’s been very good about not asking him if he’s called yet, even though he can tell she’s dying to know. The phone rings twice, and then picks up before the third.

“Hey, this is Stiles,” says a voice on the other end of the line, crisp and professional.

“Stiles,” Derek says slowly. It’s the first time he’s said the name aloud. It feels odd in his mouth. “Hi. This is - I’m - my name’s Derek. I - ”

“Oh, hey!” the voice says, much more warmly. “Kira said you might call. You’re interested in my services?”

Derek looks around wildly, like someone might overhear and arrest him for hiring a man to hug him. “Uh, yes. I think so.”

“You think?” Stiles says, a teasing note to his voice. Derek can feel his cheeks going pink. “Did Kira bully you into this?”

“No,” Derek says. “Not - strictly speaking.”

Stiles laughs. Derek decides he likes Stiles’ laugh; it’s warm, and doesn’t feel like it’s directed at him. “Hey, no worries. Do you want to set up a preliminary meeting? We can get to know each other, and I can help you figure out if this is really something you’re interested in.”

“Okay,” Derek says hesitantly.

Stiles suggests a coffee shop a couple blocks from Derek’s work, and they agree on a time a couple days from now, and then Stiles says, “I’m looking forward to meeting you,” like he really means it. After they hang up, Derek leans back against the wall with his heart hammering nervously. He wishes Laura was here; she would have teased him for months, but they would have laughed about it together. But if Laura _were_ here, Derek wouldn’t be doing this. He wouldn’t have isolated himself, wouldn’t have let himself be consumed by pain and loss.

When he goes inside and quietly informs Kira he’s made the call, he gets his second hug of the week. He finds it slightly bewildering how much she seems to care about him, but her cheer is catching, and he goes home that night feeling a little better about himself.

By the time he’s supposed to meet up with Stiles, though, Derek’s a wreck. He _knows_ he’s being ridiculous; this isn’t a date, it’s entirely professional even if it’s weird as hell, and he knows Kira wouldn’t direct him to someone who’s an asshole, but still. Derek feels like he’s in high school again, getting ready for his first ever date. His fucking _palms_ are getting sweaty; he has to scrub them against his pants before opening the door to the coffeeshop.

It’s quiet and warm inside. A few people sit at the tables, talking in low voices or working on laptops. Derek looks around anxiously, tamping down on the nervous panic growing in his chest. Stiles had said he’d be wearing a black hoodie, but Derek can see three different guys in black hoodies. He stands there in the doorway, frozen, until one of them glances in his direction and smiles, lifting his hand in a little wave. That _has_ to be Stiles; Derek manages to uproot himself from the floor and make his way in between tables as the guy gets to his feet.

“Derek, hey!” he says, holding out his hand for Derek to shake, which Derek does, and Stiles is polite enough to not comment on the fact that Derek’s hand is basically drenched in sweat. “You want a drink? I was waiting for you to get here before ordering.”

“Uh - coffee, please,” Derek says. He’s not thirsty, but he needs a distraction. “Decaf.”

Stiles nods and gestures at him to sit. Derek does, watching Stiles head for the counter. He’s the same height as Derek but a little more lean, with a wicked gleam to his eyes like he’s always on the verge of telling a joke. Derek finds himself staring at Stiles’ mouth, his full lips, the speckle of moles that frame it. Stiles turns his way and catches him looking; he winks, and Derek thumps back in his seat, irritated at himself when he realizes he was looking at Stiles like they _are_ on a date. Strictly professional, Derek reminds himself sternly.

When Stiles returns, he sets a steaming mug of coffee in front of Derek and returns to his own chair with a cup of tea that smells strongly of cinnamon and cloves. “All right,” Stiles says briskly, wrapping his long fingers around his mug. “So it’s been a couple days since we talked. Are you still feeling uncertain about this?”

Derek hesitates. It’s all he’s been thinking about for the past couple days, and the more he thinks about it, the more the idea appeals to him, but he’s still not sure he _gets_ it. “What is it, exactly,” he says slowly, “that you _do?”_

Stiles blinks, looking a little surprised, but he answers easily enough, “Well, it depends on what _you_ want, but I’m basically here for non-sexual physical comfort. Spooning, hand-holding - Kira told me you’re a werewolf, and I know you guys are big on grooming. I give a mean back massage.”

Derek’s quiet for a moment, thinking about this. “Why do people want this from you?”

Stiles shrugs with one shoulder, smiling faintly. “Everyone’s different,” he says. “Some people are lonely. Some people just got out of a relationship and want the physical contact they miss. Some people aren’t _ready_ for a relationship, and I’m kind of that in between step. I’ve got an old lady who misses her husband and we go to the park on the weekends and feed the ducks because that’s what they used to do.” He gives Derek a friendly look and says, “But in the end, it doesn’t matter to me _why;_ I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to provide a service, and as long as you’re satisfied, that’s all that’s important.”

“Oh,” Derek says quietly.

“If you’re still not sure, I’ve got a bunch of studies I can give you,” Stiles says. “They’ve shown that sharing a bed with someone can be really beneficial to your health.”

Derek draws in a deep breath and shakes his head. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t need - ” He exhales slowly and makes eye contact with Stiles. “I’d like to try it out.”

Stiles grins. “Awesome! Okay, hold on.” He leans over, fishing an iPad out of a bag at his feet. As he unlocks the screen and pulls up an app, he says, “I’ve got a standard contract that I can email you to look over, but the basics are pretty straightforward: clothes stay on, and our relationship has to stay professional. The nature of this is really personal, so it’s important we’re comfortable with each other, but if you start developing any feelings for me, you need to tell me, and this will have to end. And since you’re a werewolf, no scent-marking. I have to be fair to all of my clients, so I can’t go around smelling like someone else. Agreed?”

Derek nods slowly.

“Okay,” Stiles says, making a note on his tablet. “Do you have any requests for me?”

Derek stares at him blankly. “Like what?”

“Some people get specific about what clothes they like me to wear,” Stiles explains patiently. “Not kinky stuff, obviously, but pajamas or sweatpants or whatever. If there’s a color you hate, or - ”

Derek shakes his head. “I don’t care,” he says. “Wear what’s comfortable for you.”

“All right,” Stiles says easily, making another note. “What about scent? I make sure, especially with werewolf clients, that I only smell like myself, but if there’s a scent you like, or you don’t want me to smell like anything at all, I’ve got some spells that’ll make me as inoffensive as possible.”

Derek shakes his head again. He can smell Stiles from where he’s sitting, and his scent’s an easy mix of basil and lemon, vibrant and welcoming. “You’re fine,” he says quietly.

Stiles shoots him a quick smile. “Cool,” he says. “I’ll email you this and then you just have to sign it and send it back. You want to set up your first appointment? Where do you want to do this? I’ll go anywhere you want - your place, a hotel, wherever.”

Now Derek hesitates again. He’s not sure he’s ready for Stiles to come to his apartment - when he thinks about it, he can’t remember the last time he had a guest over - but a hotel sounds too much like where he’d meet a hooker.

“How about this?” Stiles offers, seeing Derek’s uncertainty. “The movie theater on Elmwood has those seats where you can flip up the arm and make it a love seat. Why don’t we go there? We’ll be in public, so you can bail any time if you feel uncomfortable.”

Derek considers this before nodding. “All right. What about payment?”

Stiles waves a flippant hand. “Kira said she’d cover your first session. If you want to do it again, we can talk later.”

“Oh,” Derek says, startled. He thinks he should be annoyed with Kira, but mostly he’s just…pleased that she cares.

“Sunday afternoon work for you?” Stiles asks, consulting a calendar on his iPad. “Look at the movies playing and figure out what you want to see. You’ve got my number - feel free to text me.”

“Isn’t there anything you want to see?” Derek asks cautiously.

Stiles does that one-shouldered shrug again. “This is about you, man. I see what I want to see on my own time.”

Derek realizes that he probably sees a lot of movies, considering his job and the fact he immediately suggested the theater as a meeting place. He probably suggests the movies to a lot of people. Derek nods, and Stiles grins, slipping his iPad back into his bag. Derek watches him down the rest of his tea in three long pulls, and then Stiles sets his cup down and says, “Sorry to run, but I’ve actually got an appointment to get to. See you Sunday?”

Derek nods again as Stiles gets to his feet. He pauses after he swings his backpack over his shoulders, looking down at Derek, an oddly intent expression on his face. “Glad to finally meet you,” he says, oddly formal all of a sudden, but Derek doesn’t hear a lie in his voice. He _is_ glad to meet Derek, for some unfathomable reason.

When he leaves, Stiles brushes a hand over Derek’s head as he walks by, and Derek startles at the touch, twisting in his seat to watch Stiles leave, staring after him long after he’s disappeared down the street.

-

On Sunday, Derek’s startled to find he’s not all that nervous to see Stiles; if anything, he’s looking forward to it. He sleeps in later than usual, and kills time by working out. He showers carefully, and then stresses a little about how to dress before reminding himself that it’s not a date, and dresses comfortably. When he gets to the theater and finds Stiles waiting for him, he’s relieved to see Stiles has done the same, jeans and a plaid shirt.

Derek was worried that it was going to be weird, or that he was going to panic and back out, but Stiles is good at what he does. They get in line to buy tickets for the movie, and Stiles slips his hand into Derek’s then looks at him for confirmation, and Derek nods. It just feels…right. It’s weird, obviously; werewolves aren’t known for trusting easily, and Derek’s certainly no exception, but it’s easier, maybe, with Stiles, because he knows there’s no expectations. They’ve already laid out boundaries, and Derek can just _be._ It’s a relief.

They get popcorn and Stiles gets Red Vines, wryly remarking, “This job is _such_ a hardship,” and when they get into the theater for their showing, Stiles waits for Derek to get settled before he asks, “Do you like to be the one doing the cuddling, or do you like to be the one cuddled _at?”_

Derek thinks about this. “Cuddler or cuddlee?” he asks solemnly.

Stiles startles him with a sharp laugh. “Exactly.”

“Cuddlee,” Derek decides, and Stiles nods agreeably, pushing up the seat arm between them and sinking right into Derek’s side when Derek tentatively lifts his arm. Again, Derek’s startled by how right it feels, how loose and relaxed Stiles is, fitting up against Derek’s side like a puzzle piece. For a while, Derek sits stiffly, not sure how to relax, with his arm bent around Stiles’ shoulder, but then Stiles puts a hand on his knee and Derek gets distracted by the sweep of his thumb against his leg, brushing back and forth over and over. By the time the movie starts, Derek’s nearly boneless, more relaxed than he’s felt in - _literally_ \- years, and by the time the movie’s over, he almost feels like he’s floating.

How could he have forgotten how it felt to it so close with someone, to hear their heart beating right next to his? He has to resist the urge to nuzzle against Stiles’ neck, remembering the rule about no scent-marking. Stiles is still pretty much a stranger, he reminds himself. Even if scent-marking _wasn’t_ against the rules, it’d be rude to do at this point in their acquaintance.

Even when Stiles pulls away after the movie ends, he doesn’t immediately break contact with Derek, keeping a hand on his arm all the way to the street. Only then does his hand drop to his side. “Good movie,” he says brightly. “I hadn’t seen that one yet.”

“You’re welcome,” Derek says, and then hesitates before saying, “And thank you for…you know.”

Stiles nods, smiling faintly. “Take some time to reflect on it,” he says. “I’ll send you a follow-up email in a few days. If you decide you want to do it again, just let me know and we can schedule something then.”

Derek already knows he wants to try it again, but he wants Stiles to think he’s a reasonable person. “I’ll think about it,” he says, glad Stiles is human and won’t be able to hear the lie.

“All right,” Stiles says, patting Derek on the arm. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

-

On Monday, Derek gets to work and sits down at his desk and almost immediately gets the feeling he’s being watched. He spins around to find Kira staring at him over his cubicle wall, an excited look on her face.

“Can I help you?” Derek asks pointedly, and Kira grins.

“Well?” she asks eagerly. “How was it?”

Derek gives her a suspicious look. “I thought Stiles was a friend of yours,” he says. “He didn’t tell you?”

“He said that’d be violating client confidentiality,” Kira says, and then she looks a little horrified. “Oh, but - you don’t have to tell me, if it was really personal. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have even asked - ”

“Kira, it’s fine,” Derek says patiently. “It was - I had a good time. And you didn’t need to pay for it,” he adds, a little severely.

Kira’s not bothered by his tone in the slightest. “You deserve to be happy, she told him warmly. “It’s a small price to pay. You really had a good time, though?”

“I did,” Derek assures her quietly. He hasn’t stopped thinking about it.

“Are you going to hire him again?” Kira asks softly. Derek hesitates and then nods, and she looks so pleased that he accepts an invitation to dinner without really thinking about it. Scott’s at dinner, and he’s pleased about it too.

“Stiles is my best friend,” he tells Derek cheerfully, and Derek expects some kind of threatening follow-up - _so you better be nice to him -_ until he remembers: they’re not dating. It’s just a job for Stiles, a transaction for Derek.

He gets the promised email from Stiles the following day. It says:

_Hey Derek,_

_I really enjoyed our session on Sunday, and I hope you did too. Now that you’ve had a couple days to reflect on it, I always ask people for feedback; let me know if there’s ways I could make it better, anything I did wrong, etc._

Derek stares at the screen, nonplussed. Make it better? How?

_If you’d like to schedule a repeat session, let me know. I’m pretty booked through the next two weeks, but I’ve just had a cancellation for Thursday night, if you’re interested in snagging it._

_Hope to hear from you soon!_

_S.S._

Derek can feel himself smiling and looks around quickly in case anyone - Kira - is looking over his cubicle wall, but he’s alone. He quickly types back an affirmative, and gets a response within five minutes.

 _Rad,_ it says, and Derek rolls his eyes. What is this, the eighties? _Where do you want to meet?_

Derek hesitates over this. The movies were fine, but they couldn’t really talk, and Derek needs to work on his conversational skills if he’s ever going to find someone to date. Dinner’s probably out, as far as Derek knows, because that’s not exactly cuddle-friendly. His apartment’s the best bet, he realizes, with a nervous twist of his stomach. He realizes, though, that if he _does_ end up dating someone, they’ll have to see his apartment at some point, and at least Stiles isn’t going to care - he’s not being paid to care about what Derek’s place looks like. It’ll be as good a trial run as any.

 _My place is fine,_ Derek types determinedly, quickly following his with address before he can change his mind. _What about payment?_

 _$50/hour,_ Stiles replies. _You can just paypal me after the session’s over, we can go as long as you want._

Derek stares at the screen. As long as he wants? _Do you stay the night with people?_ Not that he wants that, of course, but he’s honestly curiously.

 _No, sorry, midnight’s my cutoff,_ Stiles emails back. _When do you want me there? Does 7 work?_

 _Seven’s fine,_ Derek types, a nervous energy flooding his body at the thought. _I’ll see you then._

-

At home, Derek goes into a cleaning frenzy. He knows, rationally, that Stiles isn’t going to care one way or the other, but Derek’s mother raised him in a house that was always neat as a pin, and he knows she would have been horrified if he had guests over to an untidy house. Derek’s not that messy, honestly, but when you live alone, it’s easy to let things pile up, and things certainly have. He does three loads of laundry, scrubs the bathroom and kitchen spotless - even runs a clean cycle on the stove, although it’s not like Stiles is going to be sticking his head in there - and takes out all the recycling that’s been building up in the front closet.

Stiles doesn’t seem to notice any of it when he comes over - which is the point, Derek hears his mother say in his head; it’s the mess they _notice_. He just grins pleasantly and says, “I dig your couch.”

Derek’s pleased about this; it took him several years to find the perfect couch, and this one’s so cushioned that anyone who sits on it basically disappears into its depths. Sometimes he sleeps on it instead of his bed.

“May I?” Stiles asks, eyeing it longingly. Derek nods, following him like a shadow as he flops down onto it and heaves a great sigh. “Oh my god, this is _amazing._ Can I marry your couch?”

“I’m afraid she’s already taken,” Derek says apologetically. “Can I get you something to eat? Drink?”

“Nah,” Stiles says cheerfully, patting the couch next to him. “Join me.”

Derek obligingly lowers himself down next to Stiles, already relaxing as he breathes in Stiles’ scent. “Did you have a plan?” he asks.

“Mm,” Stiles hums. “You want to put a movie on or something?”

“Sure,” Derek says, and leans forward to grab a remote and turn on Netflix. “Any requests?”

“Host’s pick,” Stiles says, gesturing extravagantly. Derek snorts and chooses _Clue_ ; Stiles nods approvingly. “Good, now get down here.” He pats his lap pointedly.

Derek gives him a bewildered look. “What?”

“Lay down,” Stiles says. “Put your head here. You’ve got a dip here - “ He taps the skin between his own eyebrows. “ - and I want it gone.”

Derek frowns at him, furrowing the aforementioned dip further, but lays on his side, resting his head on Stiles’ lap. He lays there, a little stiff and not sure what Stiles is planning, but all Stiles does is put one hand on Derek’s shoulder, rubbing up and down his arm until Derek starts to relax, his attention split between Stiles and movie. He hears Stiles mutter something above him, and realizes he’s quoting along with the characters on screen. Derek smiles to himself and settles down on him more firmly, pleased with his choice.

After a while, Stiles’ hand slides up Derek’s shoulder and squeezes very gently at the back of his neck before smoothing over his hair. Derek startles at the intimate touch, an unconscious noise slipping between his lips. Stiles pauses immediately, lifting his hand from Derek’s head. “Out of bounds?”

“No,” Derek says quickly. “Please, keep doing it. Please - ”

“Okay,” Stiles says gently, and he sets his hand back down, dragging his fingers through Derek’s hair over and over. Every so often, his fingernails scrape against Derek’s scalp, sending delicious shivers of pleasure down Derek’s spine. It feels so good it almost hurts; Derek has to close his eyes when they burn, angry at himself for denying himself companionship for so long.

“Life after death is as improbable as sex after marriage,” Stiles quotes above him, and snorts in amusement. He taps gentle fingers against Derek’s cheekbone. “You doing okay, man?”

“Fine,” Derek murmurs, not opening his eyes. His body’s starting to feel heavy until Stiles’ careful touch; he could sleep, but then he won’t be able to take advantage of the opportunity to work on his conversational skills. Does it matter? He wonders drowsily. He can always just pay for another session. It’s not going to break the bank, not even close.

The next thing he knows, Stiles is shaking him gently. “Hey man,” Stiles whispers. “It’s past nine. Naps are fine, but I always check after an hour. You want to keep going?”

Derek stares sleepily at the television; on the screen, Mrs. Peacock’s just pulled a gun on the rest of the group. “Sure,” he mumbles, feeling boneless and content.

Stiles makes an amused noise. “You know,” he says quietly. “I’ve never had a werewolf go so quickly to putty with me. Everyone else I’ve had has taken at least four sessions to relax.”

Derek’s not sure what that says about him - that he’s desperate for touch, maybe, sick of being alone. “You have a lot of werewolf clients?”

“Not really,” Stiles replies, dragging his fingers through Derek’s hair. “I think it’s a trust thing, or maybe they can tell somehow that my best friend is an alpha, and they don’t want to get involved.”

“Was he a client?” Derek asks. “Is that how you met?”

“Nah,” Stiles laughs. “We’ve been friends since third grade. All his cuddle sessions are gratis - one bonus of being my friend. You know Kira from work? What do you do?”

“Forensic accounting,” Derek sighs, which is more exciting than it sounds, but not by much. Certainly not where he thought he’d be, but after the fire he’d needed stability and normality, and this is about as close as it gets.

“Oh, cool,” Stiles says, sounding genuinely impressed. “I failed Algebra two times.”

Derek snorts, pleased to discover that he _likes_ talking to Stiles. He’s easy to talk to; he listens well, and reacts at the right times, and he tells interesting stories. Before Derek realizes it, it’s been another hour, and Stiles is checking in again.

“You want to go again?” he asks, his brown eyes sparkling.

Derek hesitates, tempted to say yes, to keep saying yes until they hit Stiles’ midnight limit, but he should be reasonable. He shakes his head. “I should get to bed.”

Do his eyes deceive him, or does Stiles look momentarily disappointed? He’s imagining things, he thinks, or else Stiles is disappointed he’s not getting a bigger payment. “All right,” Stiles says, his voice light and betraying nothing. Definitely imagining it, Derek thinks. “So it’s going to $150 for today, but you can paypal me later. You want to set up another appointment?”

-

Derek has five more sessions with Stiles over the next month, each more enjoyable than the last. At his third session, they actually live up to Stiles’ title and _cuddle_. Derek is so anxious about it that he thinks his heart is going to burst from his chest, especially when he opens the door and Stiles is standing there in sweatpants and god, the way they hang from his hips - Derek is _dead._

“All right,” Stiles says, looking around Derek’s bedroom approvingly. “I’ll just get this out of the way now: boners are a possible occurrence here, not going to lie. If it happens to either of us, no worries; this is a boner judgement-free zone. You just tap out - ” Stiles taps his arms with two fingers. “ - and we’ll end the session, pro-rated for the hour. That goes for anything; if you start getting uncomfortable or claustrophobic or something, just tap out.”

Derek nods, swallowing tightly. He hadn’t even _thought_ about the possibility of getting a hard-on, but he’s about to get up and personal with Stiles’ pert little ass - seeing the way his sweatpants hugged it was bad enough. It’s definitely going to happen, and then he’s going to die of mortification, but not before he kills Kira for doing this to him.

No boners occur, though; it’s odd enough to be spooning someone on top of the covers on a warm Saturday afternoon. Derek’s anxious for a while, his arm looped over Stiles’ chest, mouth scant millimeters from Stiles’ shoulder, but he tries matching his breathing to Stiles’, and he’s relaxing soon enough. It’s incredible, and the next few sessions only make him feel better and better.

Derek thinks that maybe it’s time for him to try reaching out, start finding someone he can date. He thinks about the barista at the coffee shop where he met Stiles for the first time; he’s been going there since their meeting, and she’s flirted with him every time. Derek thinks about her, and then he shakes his head. She’s beautiful and kind but she’s not - not - Derek’s at work when he realizes it, and he drops his head to his desk with a groan. Not _Stiles._

Not Stiles, who’s quick-witted, and funny, and he’s got those long fingers he works so carefully through Derek’s hair and the knotted muscles of his back. Not Stiles, with his smiles that are more of a one-sided smirk, and his devotion to his job, and deep care for the well-being of his clients. Not Stiles, who Derek _hired_ because he was too pitiful to find someone to date, who said in their first meeting, _if you start developing any feelings for me, you need to tell me, and this will have to end._

Derek desperately doesn’t want it to end. He maxes out their evening sessions, keeping Stiles in bed with him until 11:59, savoring every minute. Stiles is at his place so often that the apartment begins to smell like he lives there, the couch and the bed saturated with his scent. Derek guiltily jerks off the memory of Stiles’ body pressed to his, how his scent tastes on Derek’s tongue, how smooth his skin is, and he does not say _anything_ to Stiles.

He _knows_ he’s being stupid. Stiles doesn’t _really_ care for him; it’s just his job. It doesn’t matter how many questions he asks Derek about his life, or the soft way he touches him, or even the way he smells like he’s turned on sometimes when they’re in Derek’s bed. _Boners are a possible occurrence here,_ Derek reminds himself, and he knows better than to take it as a sign, that it might mean anything more than the simple pleasure of sharing a bed with another person. Stiles isn’t _his;_ as much as he wants to, Derek can’t press in and kiss the side of his neck, can’t scent mark him, can’t rub their skin together until Stiles goes pink from the scrape of Derek’s beard. He knows he should stop, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

Their seventh session is a Friday night, and Derek’s tired from a marathon of a meeting that ran all afternoon and into the early evening. He’s startled to open the door to Stiles and find him looking just as exhausted as Derek feels, his weariness punctuated by a wide yawn as he wanders into the apartment past Derek.

“Sorry man,” he says apologetically, kicking off his shoes and immediately heading for the bedroom. “I had like eight kick-off meetings with people, and it’s _draining.”_

Derek’s chest tightens at the reminder that this is a job for Stiles, and he tries not to get jealous thinking of those eight other clients curled up with him. _This is a job,_ he reminds himself. Stiles is basically his employee. He -

“Derek!” Stiles hollers from the bedroom. “Get in here and cuddle with me!”

 _This is a job,_ Derek tells himself miserably. He’s stalled long enough. He’ll tell Stiles his feelings today…after their session’s over. Might as well get one last time in.

It seems like second nature by now to climb onto his bed and curl up behind Stiles, looping an arm over his chest. Stiles is covered with with navy blue throw from the end of the bed - technically against his own rules, as the cuddling’s always supposed to be above covers - but he complains his feet get cold. Derek falls asleep easily, soothed by the steady sound of Stiles’ breathing. It’s raining outside, and the sound of the rain lashing the windows adds to his calm. He floats off to sleep, dreamless and steady. He never sleeps better than when Stiles is there with him.

Derek wakes on his own, which is unusual; usually Stiles shakes him away to say goodbye before he leaves, but he’s asleep next to Derek, which is unusual as well. Stiles told him a couple weeks ago that he doesn’t usually fall asleep on the job, even if his client does. “Can’t keep the meter running if I’m asleep too,” he’d joked.

They’ve shifted in their sleep; now Stiles is on his back, his limbs spread-eagled across the bed, and Derek’s half on top of him, one of his legs splayed across Stiles’. Derek goes very still, and his eyes lift to the alarm clock on his nightstand: 4:28 AM. Four and a half hours after Stiles was supposed to leave. It’s almost morning; no wonder the room’s starting to look gray.

Derek’s eyes drop back down to Stiles, guilt tightening his chest. He should wake Stiles up. He _needs_ to wake Stiles up…but he doesn’t want to. He could pretend he slept through the whole night, not waking until Stiles wakes first - but that’s going too far, he knows. Tonight was supposed to be the night when he told Stiles how he felt. It’s not right to do this.

Derek shifts forward, intending to wake Stiles as gently as possible, but Stiles stirs with his movement, his long dark lashes fluttering open. Derek pauses as Stiles looks up at him, his face soft in the gray morning light, hair tousled from sleep, umber eyes half-open. Stiles lifts a hand and brushes his fingers against Derek’s cheek, and Derek can’t help it; he gives in and dips down, pressing their mouths together. For a moment it’s good, it’s so good; Stiles kisses him back, his hand moving to Derek’s hair and curling against his scalp - and then he jerks his head away, his eyes going wide.

“Stiles,” Derek says, a little desperately.

“No,” Stiles says, rapidly pulling himself off the bed. Derek can hear his heart hammering in his chest, and when he looks over at the alarm clock and sees what time it is, he curses. “I don’t kiss clients, Derek.”

It feels as though someone’s wrapped a band of steel around his chest. “Right,” Derek says woodenly, looking down at the bed. “Well. I guess I’m not your client anymore, so you should probably go.”

Stiles nods tightly. Derek doesn’t get out of bed; he listens to Stiles stalk through his apartment, pull his shoes on, and leave, closing the door quietly behind him. Only then does Derek collapse onto his bed with a disconsolate moan. He _knows_ he should have said something; it’s his own goddamn fault for getting so caught up with a fucking _professional cuddler._

Despairing, Derek burrows his way under the covers. It’s a Saturday by now; he doesn’t have anywhere he needs to be for the next forty-eight hours. Hell, it’s not like he needs to work, anyway, and if he doesn’t go back to work, he won’t have to see whatever face Kira will make when she finds out her coworker kissed her husband’s best friend in a clear violation of their work agreement. Derek won’t even need to tell her; she’ll already know, because Derek’s not Stiles’ client anymore, so he can tell her every sordid little detail of their times spent together. Derek groans again.

He’s just drifting off into a miserable black sea of sleep when someone starts pounding on his apartment door. At first, Derek ignores them, drawing his cave of blankets tighter around his body; the type of person who knocks on doors at four in the morning can’t be up to any good. They’ll go away eventually.

Except they don’t; the knocking continues. Derek groans for a third time and drags himself out of bed. When he opens the door, Stiles is standing there, his cheeks pink and his head held high with determination. When Derek opens the door, Stiles throws himself at Derek, smashing their mouths together, fisting his hands in the front of Derek’s shirt. Derek, startled, almost gives in automatically, but then he rewinds through the last half hour and pushes Stiles back.

“What are you - ” Derek tries. “You said - ”

Stiles grins at him, his eyes bright. “You’re not my client anymore,” he says.

Derek stares at him. “I know,” he says, his heart hurting. “I - ”

“No,” Stiles says, giving him a pointed look. _“You’re not my client anymore.”_

Derek continues to stare at him. “I - ” He stops, comprehension dawning over him. “You don’t kiss clients,” he says. “I’m not your client anymore.”

“Bingo,” Stiles says delightedly. “Honestly, I’d been hoping you’d fire me for ages. Kira thought it’d take you two weeks.”

“Oh,” Derek says quietly. “You’re…interested in me?”

“More than,” Stiles says, his eyes fixed on Derek’s face.

Derek swallows tightly. “Do you want to come in? Spend the rest of the night?”

Stiles grins widely as he steps into the apartment. “How can I say no to my favorite ex-customer?”


	77. Chapter 77

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, meet cute, weddings

“Hey,” someone’s whispering, jabbing Derek in the side with what’s either a knife or a very bony finger. “You awake, man?”

“Mm,” Derek says noncommittally, his face shoved into a pillow. He doesn’t feel particularly inclined to lift his head or even open his eyes, his head pounding painfully.

“Hey,” the whisperer repeats, jabbing him again. “You’re not seeing anyone, are you?”

Derek makes a startled noise, and the whisperer continues, “I’m only asking because there’s a woman out in the hall calling your name and she sounds _pissed._ Do I need to leave through the window?”

“Huh?” Derek lifts his head, wincing at the flare of pain that bursts behind his eyes. He can hear it too; someone’s knocking on the door, and then they call his name and he groans. Fucking Laura. He pries himself out of bed, grabbing at a towel to wrap around his waist before he goes to answer the door. Laura’s pacing out in the hotel hallway, her eyebrows drawn down in a heavy frown.

“You missed breakfast,” Laura snaps the moment he opens the door.

“Good morning to you too,” Derek says, sleepily dragging a hand through his hair.

Laura stops pacing and raises her eyebrows at him. “You look like shit,” she says helpfully. “How late did you stay out? I turned around and you were gone.”

Derek shrugs ambiguously, his memory of the night before not all that solid.

Laura stares at him for a moment, and then she grins, reaching out and flicking her finger against his collarbone. Derek winces, then glares at her. She’s still grinning. “Hickey,” she says. “Looks like you were having fun.”

Derek grunts, irritated. “Can I go back to bed now?”

“The ceremony’s in two hours,” Laura says pointedly. “Don’t be late.”

“Noted,” Derek says dryly, and shuts the door in her face. He staggers back across the room and sinks into bed with a sigh, nearly forgetting he’s not alone until the guy next to him says, “So not an angry wife-slash-girlfriend?”

“Sister,” Derek replies, cracking his eyes open again. He’s got a vague memory of that face from last night, moles freckling his skin, those liquid brown eyes and long lashes. Mostly he remembers being pressed up against a wall at the bar - maybe the third or fourth bar of the night; he’s not sure, having been separated from the rest of the group at some point - and those long fingers digging into his shoulders. “You’re…?”

“Stiles,” Last Night says, grinning faintly. “You okay, man? You look half dead.” 

Derek groans, rubbing his hands over his face. “I need a shower.”

“All right,” Stiles says. “You want me to get out?" 

Derek shrugs. “If you want to,” he says. “Or you could order us breakfast from room service.” He’s not opposed to a little company; it’ll help keep his mind off the ceremony.

“Oh, I am all over that,” Stiles says gleefully, leaning over to dig around in the drawer of the nightstand for the menu. “Any requests?”

“Ham and cheese omelette,” Derek says, pushing himself back out of bed with a sigh. “With spinach.”

“Right-o,” Stiles says, already reaching for the phone.

The shower’s nice; it wakes Derek up more than anything, and more of last night starts sliding back to him. A delicious shudder runs down his spine when he remembers coming back to the hotel with Stiles, and the sex that followed - some of the best he’s had in years, if he’s being honest. 

Stiles is still in bed when Derek comes out of the bathroom, and he doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ eyes flick down his body appreciatively. Derek takes his time sinking back into bed, letting himself enjoy the attention; he figures it’s all right to indulge once in a while, and it’s not like he’s going to see Stiles again after this morning.

“Hey,” Stiles says, in the same exact way he had when he’d stepped up next to Derek at the bar, and that one word now says exactly what it did last night: _I want to fuck your brains out._ Derek’s one hundred percent down with that.

“Hey,” Derek returns quietly, leaning in to catch Stiles’ lips. Stiles makes an appreciative noise, his hand slipping around the back of Derek’s neck, tugging him in closer. Derek goes willingly, straddling Stiles’ thighs so he can push him back into the pillows while Stiles’ long fingers skate down his sides, gripping his thighs and then cupping his ass. Derek just tilted his head to bite at Stiles’ throat when there’s a sharp knock on the door, and Stiles shoves him away, a gleeful look on his face when someone calls, “Room service!”

“Sorry, man,” Stiles says apologetically, yanking on a pair of boxers that Derek thinks are actually his. “There’s only one thing I like more than sex, and that’s breakfast.”

Derek snorts and waves him away, yanking a sheet over his lap while Stiles opens the door to let the room service attendant push in a table laden with breakfast food. Derek raises his eyebrows at all of it. “You weren’t kidding, were you?”

“Nope,” Stiles says cheerfully, passing Derek his omelette, which looks pitiful comparing the plate Stiles loads himself with eggs, toast, bacon, and hashbrowns. “I’ll pay for it \- I’m not taking advantage of you, don’t worry.”

“I don’t mind paying,” Derek protests, but Stiles holds up a hand.

“No way,” he says solemnly. “You bought me like a thousand drinks last night _and_ you let me stay in this bomb-ass hotel room. It’s the least I can do. My dad taught me not to take advantage of people.” Stiles sniffs haughtily, then ruins the illusion of pretension by stuffing an entire piece of bacon into his mouth.

Derek smiles faintly as he digs into his omelette. He likes Stiles for saying that; he’s slept with plenty of people who _would_ look around at the nice hotel room and take advantage of the fact that he’s got money. That’s the danger of sleeping with strangers, and he’s used to it, but it’s still a nice thing to say.

“So what are you in town for?” Stiles asks, crunching through a piece of toast.

“Wedding,” Derek says, his heart sinking at the reminder. Stiles looks at him, stricken, and Derek quickly adds, “Not _my_ wedding.”

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles says weakly.

“What about you?” Derek asks, using the side of his fork to cut up his omelette. “Are you from around here?” 

“Oh, god no,” Stiles says. “My friend’s grandfather died, so we all came in for the funeral.”

“Oh,” Derek says. “My condolences.”

Stiles shakes his head, shaking pepper over his eggs. “Nah, don’t be. That dude was an asshole. I only came to support Allison.” He squints his eyes at Derek. “So who’s getting married? Your sister?”

Derek snorts derisively, though his amusement soon passes. “No, a friend from high school.” Stiles raises his eyebrows, and Derek hesitates before continuing, “My first girlfriend.”

“Ooh,” Stiles says sympathetically. “High school sweetheart?” Derek nods, clenching his jaw. He doesn’t know if it’s because Paige was the first person he ever loved, but it still stings more than a decade later. They parted amicably when it became clear that their goals in life weren’t at all the same, and Derek only wants the best for her, but it still hurts a little, knowing she’s happy and getting married, and he’s still getting drunk in bars and picking up random people to fuck. 

“That sucks, man,” Stiles declares. “Toast?”

Derek delicately accepts the piece of bread Stiles offers him, crunching on it morosely.

“My first girlfriend’s one of my best friends,” Stiles tells him, “but if she ever gets married - ” He wrinkles his nose as he thinks about it. “I’d go, but I’d have to be drunk.”

Derek sighs and sets aside his plate. “I couldn’t do that to her,” he says.

“Yeah, probably not a great idea,” Stiles agrees. “You’re a terrible dancer when you’re drunk.”

Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles. “Did we - ”

“Totally,” Stiles says cheerfully, putting his empty plate back on the room service cart and grabbing another stacked with waffles. “Then you gave me a handie in the bathroom. _That_ was awesome.”

Derek groans, rubbing his hands over his face. He needs to fucking grow up. His friends are getting married and having kids, and here he is, twenty-nine as of four months ago, giving handjobs to strangers in the bathroom of bars - like he’s a fucking college _freshman._

“Hey, man,” Stiles says with concern, completely misinterpreting Derek’s groan. “I’m sure you’re going to have a good time. Do you know anyone else who’s going to be there?”

“No,” Derek sighs. “Just Laura - my sister.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, a little surprised. “You don’t have a date?”

Derek gives him a look. “Do you think you’d be in here with me if I did?”

Stiles puts his hands up. “Hey man, I’m not judging,” he says lightly. “I’ve gone stag to weddings, but I’ve brought friends, too. Didn’t know if that was the case.”

“No,” Derek says quietly, leaning back against the pillows. He had, in a fit of denial, filled out the RSVP slip indicating that he’d have a plus-one with him, hoping in vain that by the time the wedding rolled around he might be dating someone, but that hadn’t happened. Now Laura’s his plus-one, and he’s got a feeling that makes him almost as much of a loser as just showing up alone.

Stiles watches him for a moment and then returns to his waffles, scarfing them down so fast that Derek really should be grossed out, but it’s almost endearing somehow. He likes Stiles, he thinks, likes the press of his foot against Stiles’ thigh, the way Stiles absently squeezes his ankle when he leans over to grab more maple syrup.

“Do you want to go with me?” Derek asks abruptly. And why the hell not? He thinks. He’s only going to be in town a couple more days. After this, he’ll never see Stiles again.

Stiles looks up at him quickly, startled. “Where?” he asks, bewildered. “To the wedding?”

Derek nods, and Stiles takes another absent bite of his waffles, mulls it over. “Okay,” he says easily. 

Derek nods again, a little startled that he accepted. “Oh,” he says, realization hitting him. “The funeral - ”

“That was yesterday,” Stiles says. He grins at Derek. “I’ve got my suit and everything, so I think this was meant to be.”

Derek summons a faint grin of his own, buoyed by Stiles’ enthusiasm. “There we go,” Stiles says cheerfully, dumping his plate back on the cart and clambering into Derek’s lap. They make out lazily for a while, but Derek reluctantly catches Stiles’ wrist when Stiles’ hand slips down between his legs.

“Can’t,” he says regretfully. “Gotta get dressed.”

Stiles heaves out a sigh. “Fair enough. You think this hotel room’s got an iron?”

It does, and Derek gets dressed as Stiles irons his shirt and jacket in his boxers, another oddly endearing image. Stiles hums to himself as he works, though he cuts off abruptly to ask, “Hey, isn’t your sister going to be pissed?”

“No,” Derek says, struggling with his tie. “She hates getting dressed up; she only came for the free food. If I tell her she can stay here and order whatever she wants from room service, she’ll be in heaven." 

“Sounds like a girl after my own heart,” Stiles says admiringly, setting the iron down to come help Derek with his tie. When he’s done he takes a step back and looks Derek up and down approvingly. _“Damn,”_ he says appreciatively. “I wish I looked half as hot in a suit as you do.”

“I doubt that’s true,” Derek says, and if Stiles had been wearing a shirt, he would have tugged him in for a kiss. “Why don’t you put it on and let me be the judge of that?”

He’s gratified to see Stiles’ cheeks go pink. “I’m going to go talk to Laura while you get dressed,” he says smoothly. 

 Stiles shakes a fist at him as Derek leaves the room. “This isn’t over!” he hisses. “We’re gonna finish what we started! My dick doesn’t forget that easily!”

A passing housekeeper gives Derek a very disgusted look as he shuts the door. He gives her a placating smile and walks off down the hall to knock at Laura’s door, which she answers a moment later, wrapped in a towel, her hair half pinned up. 

“What?” she says waspishly. “God, I hate men. All you have to do is put on a suit and you look _amazing.”_

“Well, you can get back into bed,” Derek says, leaning against the doorway. “You don’t have to come.”

“What do you mean?” Laura asks suspiciously. 

 “The guy I met last night - he’s going to come with me,” Derek explains. “If you’re okay with it.”

“Are you being serious right now?” Laura says. “You’re taking your one-night stand to Paige’s wedding?”

“You think I’m nuts.”

“Oh, I definitely think you’re nuts,” Laura declares, pulling bobby pins out of her hair. “But if it gets me out of this, be my guest.”

“Thanks,” Derek says dryly. “Treat yourself to room service.”

“I plan on it,” she says firmly, and then tugs on the collar of his shirt until he bends down so she can kiss him on the cheek. “Have fun, and if you sneak off somewhere to fool around, make sure the door’s locked behind you. There’s something about weddings that makes people horny and you don’t want to get walked in on.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Derek sighs.

“Bye!” Laura says brightly, and shuts the door in his face.

When Derek gets back to his room, Stiles is fully dressed and sitting on the end of the bed, eating yogurt and berries and watching _Avatar: The Last Airbender_ with a solemn expression on his face. “More food?” Derek asks.

“Weddings are serious business, man,” Stiles replies. “You never know if there are going to be delays. I need all the calories I can get.” He looks up at Derek, his dark eyes bright. “So what’s our story going to be?”

Derek blinks at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean - ” Stiles gestures extravagantly with his spoon. “ - what are you going to say when people ask who I am? You’re not going to tell them we met at the bar last night, are you? I mean, you gotta be careful; weddings are like ground zero for gossip, and if you’re not careful, you’ll be the center of it.”

Derek frowns at him, but he’s got a point. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” he says.

“Well,” Stiles says, “we could tell people we’re just friends, but why not have some fun with it? I mean, you said you didn’t know anyone who was going to be there, right? Let’s tell them we’re dating, let’s - _oh,_ can we pretend we’re engaged?”

“We don’t have rings,” Derek says, amused.

“Aw, man,” Stiles sighs, looking bummed. “Nevermind that, then. Let’s make it interesting, though: how’d we meet?”

By the time they get to the wedding, they’ve established that they met while hiking in Oregon, they’ve been living together for six months, they’ve got a cat named Oreo, and, if anyone asks while Derek’s not in the vicinity, Stiles is planning on proposing during the cruise to the Bahamas they’re taking next winter. Stiles looks absolutely gleeful at the tales they’ve spun, and Derek’s grinning too - though part of him hurts a little, knowing that this isn’t actually real. The more he gets to know Stiles, the more he likes him, and he’s starting to wish this _was_ their life.

The ceremony’s beautiful; Paige is radiant, her smile blinding as she walks down the aisle. Stiles takes Derek’s hand and squeezes it, and doesn’t let go through the rest of the ceremony. Derek’s surprised to find it doesn’t hurt all that much to be there, and maybe it’s because of Stiles distracting him, but he’s just happy to see Paige so happy. 

After the ceremony’s over, they shuffle through the receiving line, and Derek gives Paige a tight hug. “Congrats,” he murmurs into her hair, and she pats him on the cheek with a grin.

“Hey,” Stiles says to her, leaning into Derek’s side. “Congratulations!”

Paige looks at Stiles and then she looks at Derek, her eyebrows rising, and he feels his face going warm as he says, “This is Stiles. My boyfriend.” 

“Boyfriend?” Paige repeats, a wicked gleam appearing in her eye. “I’ll have to talk to you later.”

“We can share horror stories,” Stiles says agreeably, waving as Derek drags him off. He cackles as they drive to the reception hall, rubbing his hands together. “Let the games begin,” he says ominously, in a way that makes Derek wonder if he’s made a mistake.

If anything, the mistake’s Derek made is that he and Stiles aren’t actually dating, a fact he regrets more with every passing moment. Derek knows that if Laura had been his guest, they would have made polite conversation with the people at their table \- mostly Paige’s older cousins - and that would have been about it, but Stiles is completely different. He’s entirely willing to engage with the people around them, answering questions and firing off his own with some veracity. He’s quick and witty, swiftly building more details of their fake relationship than Derek would have ever thought of - they had a fight last week over laundry detergent, and Derek gives Stiles a ride to work every day, and they went to New York City for their six month anniversary.

It’s a mixed blessing when the food gets put out, because then Stiles stops talking. On the one hand, it means that Derek doesn’t have to listen to more tales about their nonexistent life together, but on the other, it means that Stiles is eating, and Derek and the rest of the table watch in horrified fascination as Stiles mows his way through several slabs of roast beef, four rolls, a massive pile of asparagus, and enough mashed potatoes to stuff a teddy bear.

“Where does it all go?” Derek hears one of Paige’s cousins whisper to her husband. Derek would like to know that too, because Stiles has barely finished clearing his plate and he’s already looking at the buffet line like he’s thinking about seconds. Derek doesn’t want to know how much cake he’s going to devour; if he’d known he was bringing a black hole as a date, he would have apologized in advance.

Luckily, or maybe not, the dancing starts around then. Derek gets a little choked up during Paige and her husband’s first dance, and Stiles’ hand finds his and holds on tight. This is, as it turns out, a bad thing, because as soon as the song changes and more people filter out onto the dance floor, Stiles is up on his feet and trying to tug Derek onto his.

“I thought you said I was a terrible dancer,” Derek protests.

“That’s when you’re drunk,” Stiles says. “I want to see how you do when you’re sober!”

Derek defiantly chugs the rest of the beer, but he’s caught in Stiles’ inertia and finds himself being pulled out onto the dance floor. As it turns out, he’s not much better at dancing when he’s sober, but it’s fun; Stiles tilts his head back and laughs like the devil, and Derek has to remind himself of where he is and not lean forward and attach his mouth to that perfect column of pale skin.

It’s six songs before he’s able to pry himself away, ostensibly to get them both beers, and Stiles waves him off and starts dancing with Paige’s six-year-old niece. Derek watches him from the bar, and startles only a little when Paige leans up next to him. “Boyfriend, huh?”

“Mhm,” Derek says, his throat a little tight.

“How long have you guys been dating?” Paige asks.

“Two years,” Derek says, because that’s what they agreed on.

“What’s he do for a living?”

“Uh,” Derek says blankly. He’s not as good as making things up as Stiles is. “He’s a teacher?" 

“Hm,” Paige says thoughtfully. “Are you happy?”

Derek looks at her, startled. “I - yes.”

Paige smiles faintly, looking out over the crowded room. “You’re a terrible liar, you know,” she says. “You always have been." 

Derek’s stomach sinks. “Paige, I - ”

“When you were in the bathroom earlier, he told me he worked in marketing,” Paige says, grinning now, the corners of her eye crinkling up in amusement. “I don’t know how long you’ve _actually_ been dating, but you should probably get your stories straight.”

Derek flushes, embarrassed, but Paige just pats him on the arm and says, “You _are_ happy, though. That part wasn’t a lie. I hope he keeps on making you happy.”

Derek looks out to the dance floor, where Stiles is spinning Paige’s niece around and around, and his chest aches. Stiles does make him happy, and that’s the problem, because this night’s going to be over soon and then he’s going to be alone again.

Paige disappears to talk to her other guests and Derek goes back to the table, where he sits alone until Stiles comes stumbling back through the busy floor and collapses into a chair next to him.

“I was looking for you!” he says, wiping the sweat from his temples. “This is _way_ better than the funeral yesterday, let me tell you.”

“You can drop the act,” Derek says dully. “Paige knows we aren’t dating.”

“Aw, what?” Stiles says, looking disappointed. “I already told like four people about the cruise, dude. I’m supposed to tell Aunt Violet over there whether you say yes or not.”

“Not, clearly,” Derek says unhappily.

The good cheer filters away from Stiles’ face. “What’s going on, man? You seemed like you were having a good time earlier.”

Derek shuts his eyes for a moment before he says, “I like you. A lot more than I should for a stranger.”

Stiles stares at him, his mouth dropping open in surprise, and then he says, “I don’t have to be a stranger.” 

Derek grimaces. “It won’t work,” he says, trying to keep his tone gentle. “I can’t do long distance. I - ” 

“Well, hold up,” Stiles says. “Let’s figure out what long distance _is._ Where do you live?” 

“Beacon Hills,” Derek sighs. Stiles doesn’t say anything, but when Derek chances a glance over at him, he’s grinning. “What?” Derek asks, feeling hope stir inside his chest despite his best effort to tamp down on it.

“Because my dad lives in Beacon Hills,” Stiles says, his grin widening. “Sheriff Stilinski? You might know him.”

Derek stares at Stiles, his mouth dropping open.

“I’m in Santa Barbara right now,” Stiles says, waving a flippant hand, “but I’ll be finishing up my dissertation in a month and after that I’ll be moving back home. To Beacon Hills,” he adds, like Derek hadn’t put it together. Derek opens his mouth but Stiles holds up his hand. “If you say anything like _it’s too good to be true,_ I’ll punch you in the mouth.”

Derek shuts his mouth, thinking fiercely. Eventually, he says, “Do you want to try this for real?”

“I do,” Stiles grins. “But right now, I mostly want to try defiling that janitor’s closet I saw on the way in. You in?”

A lazy grin spreads across Derek’s face as he offers Stiles his hand. “Lead the way.”


	78. Chapter 78

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, meet cute (ugly?), emergency rooms

When Cora had her first kid, Derek — automatically designated babysitter by way of being Cora’s only living sibling — learned a lot about babies. He learned they were much messier than he’d thought they’d be, and loud, and — once Izzy learned how to walk — _fast_. He loved her deeply, of course, because as she became less of a baby and more like a tiny person she developed a vibrant personality that was as sweet as can be with a little bit of Cora’s fiery temper mixed in, but still: he learned that toddlers were always sticky, and if the house went silent for more than a few minutes, he needed to track her down and clean up whatever mess she’d made. 

Sometime after Izzy’s third birthday, Derek learned how _strong_ she was. He’d always heard the phrase “appearances may be deceiving,” which he knew was true in certain circumstances, but if anyone had told him that Izzy was strong enough to break his nose, he wouldn’t have believed them. And yet, that’s exactly what she did, swinging a fucking wiffle ball bat right at his face when she didn’t want to come inside for dinner. The bat met his nose with a clean crack, which he briefly thought was the sound of the plastic, at least until pain flared hot all over his face, and blood started pouring out of his nose. 

Izzy burst into tears, apparently terrified by the sight of her uncle with blood running down his face, and he was faced with the difficult task of trying to get her back into the house — which she still didn’t want to do, especially not with him bleeding all over the place. He ended up picking her up and tucking her under his arm and carrying her back into the house, praying the entire time that no one driving by spotted him with a bloody face with a child under his arm and called the cops. 

Back in the house, he managed to get Izzy calmed enough to get her at the table eating dinner, and then called Cora, pinching at his nose, which was still dripping blood. It didn’t _hurt_ , exactly, just ached in a really sharp way, especially when he touched it. Cora didn’t seem to believe him, but when she came through the door half an hour later, she said, “You look like a horror movie,” and burst into laughter. 

Derek scowled at her. “Can you take over? I need to go to the hospital.”

Cora pouted at him. “Gotta fix that pretty face? Let me clean you up so you don’t make any more kids cry.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but let her dab at his face with a wet cloth. He wasn’t sure was much help — his nose was still bleeding anyway, albeit sluggishly — and his shirt looked as though it guest starred on an episode of _American Horror Story,_ but it’d have to do. Izzy refused to come near him when he ducked down to say goodbye, and he spent the entire drive to the hospital pressing a kleenex under his nose.

At the hospital, the nurse didn’t even bat an eye at his bloodstained clothes, just pushed a form to fill out at him. Once that was done, Derek gave it back and was told they’d get to him “When they could,” which he assumed meant he was at the bottom of the priority totem pole, and settled down in a chair for a long wait. His nose had stopped bleeding by now, but the whole area felt very hot and if he got jostled, little throbbing waves of pain went rippling across his face. The rest of him felt slightly damp, his shirt sticking to his chest from the drying blood. 

Derek sat there for literally hours, watching people with more pressing injuries get admitted and, occasionally, one of the people who was in the waiting room when he got there got to get up and get seen by a doctor. Derek shifted around uncomfortably, bored; it wasn’t he planned for this, and his phone only had 20% battery left, so he couldn’t fuck around on it. There weren’t any magazines out, possibly because for health reasons, or possibly because the hospital liked making their patients feel shittier than they already did. 

He’d been there three hours, slouched in his seat, absently picking at the dried blood dotting his collarbone, when someone slumped down in the seat next to him. Derek glanced over at them; it was a guy probably a couple years younger than Derek, long-limbed and sprawling in the waiting room chair. He was on the phone, his voice hushed as he said, “No, Dad, don’t worry about it, it’s just my hand. Scott dropped me off.” He was quiet for a moment, listening, and then he snorted softly. “Yeah, I know, I’m a five-year-old in a twenty-six-year-old’s body. I’ll call you when I’m done, all right? Bye.” He shoved his phone into his pocket before noticing Derek watching him; he looked a little startled, but nodded a silent greeting. 

Derek nodded back, suddenly hyper-aware of how he must look; blood all down the front of his shirt, staining his mouth and chin. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was starting to bruise under his eyes. He was a fucking mess. 

“Been here long?” the guy asked, one side of his mouth curving up in a sarcastic smile, like he knew how dumb a question it was.

“Couple hours,” Derek replied quietly. Talking didn’t hurt, but if he pressed his teeth together, stars burst in his vision. 

The guy winced. “Sucks,” he said conversationally. “Pro tip: next time, tell them you’re having chest pains. You’ll be bumped right to the top of the list.”

Derek gave him a skeptical look. “Why didn’t you do that?”

“They get really angry when they find out you don’t actually have any,” the guy replied. “And also, it’s kind of a dick move. I mean, I’m something of an asshole, but not to people who like, actually need emergency care.” He grinned at Derek, tilting his head to one side. “Let me guess,” he said. “Bar fight. You headbutted someone.”

Derek snorted and immediately regretted it, pain jolting up the bridge of his nose. “Try again.”

“Hm.” The guy scratched a hand through his hair thoughtfully. “Did you rip someone’s throat out with your bare teeth?”

Derek managed to hold in another snort. “No.”

“You sure? The gore on your t-shirt tells another story,” the guy said. 

“Pretty sure,” Derek assured him. He hesitated a moment, and then said, “I got hit with a bat.” That was close enough to the truth; this guy didn’t need to know that a three-year-old did it. 

The guy winced. “Damn. That must have hurt. Are you going to press charges?”

Derek shook his head, smiling ruefully. “It was an accident.” He gave the guy a long look up and down, but could see no exterior sign of injury. “What about you?”

To his surprise — and private delight — the guy’s face went bright red. “It’s really dumb,” he told Derek. “I can’t believe — _ugh.”_ He scrubbed a hand over his face. “My best friend and I were playing video games and I got too into it and I jammed my thumb down on the controller and it — I don’t know if it’s broken or dislocated or what, but it _really_ fucking hurts.”

Derek couldn’t help the amused noise that escaped him. He knew he shouldn’t laugh, considering how he’d received his injury, but that was _idiotic_.

Luckily, the guy seemed to agree, because he grinned sheepishly, his face still red, and said, “I know, fucking dumb, right?”

“Did you win, at least?” Derek asked. 

“No!” the guy exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “That’s why I was so pissed. Scott’s never going to let me live this down.” He yelped when he brought his hands back down and smacked his injured thumb against the armrest of his chair. _“Ow, fuck!”_

A passing nurse cast them a dark look. Derek felt like he was five again, being scolded by his mother for stealing one of Laura’s toys. The guy next to him gave the nurse a guilty look, slumping further down in his seat like if she couldn’t see him, he wouldn’t get in trouble. 

“Good thing you didn’t go for the chest pain story,” Derek murmured, and the guy clapped his uninjured hand over his mouth to trap in a guilty-sounding laugh. 

“They’re scary enough as it is,” he agreed. “Scott’s mom is a nurse, and if we did something stupid when we were kids, she didn’t even have to find out about it — she just _knew.”_

“Scott’s your…?” Derek tried to shut his mouth, but didn’t quite manage it in time. He winced, knowing that sounded like he was fishing for info, and he wasn’t. Or was he? Derek doesn’t like people, as a rule, and he didn’t even know this guy’s name — Derek was covered in _blood_ , for fuck’s sake — but there was _something_ about him that Derek couldn’t ignore.

“Best friend,” the guy told him, a knowing look creeping over his face. He shifted around, twisting onto his side and propping his head up on the back of the seat. He gave Derek what he probably thought was a sultry look and said, “So...you come here often?”

“What would you think if I said yes?” Derek asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I’d be a little scared, maybe,” the guy replied cheerfully. “And then I might ask you your name.”

Derek grinned at that; there was no mistaking his intentions there. “Are you asking, or is this still hypothetical?”

The guy grinned back at him. “You pick.”

Derek stared at him, staying silent just long enough for some of the confidence to fade from the guy’s face, and then he said, “Derek.”

The guy sagged in visible relief. “Dude,” he said. “Making me squirm? Not cool.” Derek raised his eyebrows and the guy grinned again. “I’m Stiles.”

“That’s your name?” Derek asked skeptically. 

“Better than the one I was born with,” Stiles told him cheerfully. “So — ”

“Derek?” someone called. “Derek Hale?”

Derek twisted around to see a nurse with a clipboard standing over by the front desk, looking around the waiting room. “That’s me,” he said, getting slowly to his feet. 

“Oh,” Stiles said, looking a little disappointed. “Well, good luck.”

“Thanks,” Derek said. He hesitated, and then said, “I wasn’t being truthful earlier.” Stiles gave him a bewildered look. Derek gestured at his face and told Stiles, “It was my niece. She’s three years old.”

Understanding dawned over Stiles’ face as Derek headed for the nurse, Stiles’ delighted laughter ringing out behind him. 

Derek had to get an xray to make sure nothing else in his face was broken (it wasn’t), got his nose set (more painful than the initial break), and, after a nurse gently swabbed his face clean, received a prescription for some mild painkillers. As he headed back toward the waiting room, he met Stiles coming the other way, and his stomach did a weird fluttery thing when Stiles spotted him and smiled. 

“All clear?” Stiles asked, coming to a halt in the middle of the hallway, much to the irritation of the nurse leading him.

Derek nodded. “Got to keep my xray,” he said, waving it around for emphasis. 

Stiles’ eyes lit up; Derek could tell he was going to demand his xray too.  

“Mr. Stilinski,” the nurse said impatiently. 

Stiles nodded, but his eyes met Derek’s as he blurted out, “Do you want to go get a drink after this?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to drink with the painkillers they gave me,” Derek told him.

Stiles’ face fell. “Oh, right,” he said. “Could I get your number, then? Or — ”

“Or I can wait,” Derek said, inclining his head toward the waiting room. “Give you a ride home?”

“Deal,” Stiles said, a smile starting to spread across his face. “You better be waiting when I get out.”

“I will,” Derek promised.

 _“Mr. Stilinski,”_ the nurse said pointedly, and Stiles winced. _Scary nurses,_ he mouthed at Derek before turning to follow the nurse into an examination room.

Derek was still there when Stiles emerged, a splint on one hand and an xray clasped in the other, and Derek was there every day after that, except for a rocky couple of weeks in their third year together. 

Their wedding invitations have copies of their xrays from the hospital on the cover, and _In sickness and in health_ on the inside, and when they arrive from the printer, Stiles doesn’t stop laughing about them until Derek pulls him down onto the couch and kisses him into silence.


	79. Chapter 79

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the very last, very very belated of my 5k followers giveaway that I did nearly two years ago [cringe]. [Cat](24-alpha-24.tumblr.com), I’m so sorry, and hope this makes up for it!
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** Mature
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, misunderstandings, future fic

Since the day he moved out of his dad’s house and into an apartment with Scott and Liam, Stiles has had a standing lunch date with his dad every Tuesday at the diner down the block from the sheriff’s station, their tradition long-standing enough that the waitresses kept a table ready for them even during the heavy lunch rush. Stiles always looked forward to their lunches; he missed his dad, and it gave them a chance for a little catch up (and it also gave Stiles an hour out of the apartment which always smelled very faintly of wet dog, a fact he was _not_ going to bring up to Scott or Liam). Now that Stiles had found a job and was working most of the time, it was a lot of idle chatter - Dad telling him about the latest crime sprees in town, which were never more serious than teenagers shoplifting at Rite Aid, and Stiles complaining about the mess Scott’s latest foster animal had made (which, hold on, maybe _that_ was the source of the wet dog smell: more investigation needed). The only thing that had changed recently was Stiles’ relationship status, and his dad was being weirdly respectful about not prying into it, which was nice of him; Stiles was still getting used to it himself, and Derek was, well, Derek.

Apparently there were limits to his dad’s patience, though, because on this Tuesday in particular he _did_ pry, and because he was a cop, he probably knew exactly what he was doing when he waited until Stiles had just shoveled a huge forkful of waffles into his mouth before saying, “Tell me, son, is your boyfriend growing pot?”

Stiles inhaled in surprise, which had the effect of shooting half-chewed waffles down his throat. His dad sat patiently, watching him wheeze until his throat was clear, and then Stiles looked up at him, his eyes watery from coughing, and said, “What?! Why would you ask me that?”

His father rested his chin on one hand, taking a casual sip from his mug of coffee before replying, “Seems like he’s been buying an awful lot of fertilizer over at the nursery.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at his father. “How do you know that? Have you been stalking him?”

Dad rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve got enough deputies to spare for that. You know Haigh’s wife works over that. She told him, and he told me.”

“And what, you think he wants to be some kind of kingpin?” Stiles asked sarcastically. He narrowed his eyes further, trying to imagine Derek high and failing. “Well, he’s not. He’s just serious about his garden this year.” And all right, Derek had gone a little hippie-dippie with the whole thing, but just because he hadn’t trimmed his beard in a while didn’t mean he’d become some pot-growing nutjob.

“Mm,” his father said in his cop tone, which meant he didn’t believe a word of it. Stiles scowled at him, and his dad set down his coffee mug. “Am I ever going to meet him?”

“You _have_ met him,” Stiles said, exasperated. “Like a thousand times. Do you not remember?”

“I mean officially,” Dad replied, looking annoyed. “As your boyfriend.”

Stiles looked around wildly, like if anyone heard that, he’d be in trouble. “Dad, c’mon,” he said plaintively. “It’s only been a couple months. I don’t want to rush things.” Derek was weirdly skittish about some things; the way he got cranky when he got cornered probably had something to do with his weird werewolf upbringing, and Stiles was wary of upsetting his delicate equilibrium with things like labels.  

“Mm,” his dad said again, disapproval loud in that one grunt. “I’ll give you another month, and then I’m showing up at his place with a pizza.”

“As long as it’s not an excuse to go looking for his secret weed crop,” Stiles said suspiciously. 

“No,” his dad said, his face softening into a fond smile. Stiles couldn’t help the grin that spread across his own face in response. “I just want to see the man who’s made you so happy.”

Stiles rolled his eyes fondly. “Stop, Dad, you’re making me blush.” 

His father winked at him. “Hell, if he likes football, I may have found myself a replacement son.”

Stiles squawked indignantly. “Just for that, I’m confiscating the pizza.”

His dad looked so outraged at that that Stiles burst into laughter.

-

“My dad thinks you’re a drug lord,” Stiles told Derek later. They were on the couch in Stiles’ apartment, Derek’s feet across Stiles’ lap as they watched a movie. 

Derek turned his pale eyes from the television to Stiles, blinking sedately. “Why’s that?”

“You’ve been buying too much fertilizer,” Stiles told him. “He thinks you’ve got a grow op.”

“Maybe I do,” Derek said, scratching his fingers through his beard idly. “Maybe I’m building bombs.”

“Don’t even joke about that around him,” Stiles said. “He doesn’t need any reason to come over here.”

“He wouldn’t find anything,” Derek said, his eyes fluttering shut as Stiles dug his thumb into the arch of his foot, toes curling. “I buried all my gold in the garden.”

“Good thing you got all that fertilizer to grow a dense vegetable cover,” Stiles said agreeably, one side of his mouth lifting as he watched Derek sink deeper into the couch, his whole body relaxing as Stiles rubbed his feet. “What are you growing, anyway?”

“Everything,” Derek replied. “Got some…flowering shrubs for the bees.” His voice grew deeper, more gravelly the more tired he became - something Stiles never knew about him until they started dating. Stiles liked learning these things about him, liked the way Derek wasn’t afraid to relax around him, liked the way he was a not-so-secret softy now, with his garden and his shrubs and his bees. He was on a beekeeper’s mailing list; all the old ladies on the list called the bees their “girls,” and Stiles was _dying_ waiting for the day Derek slipped up and said it too. 

“Is that what you did today?” Stiles asked. “Gardened?”

Derek shook his head, his eyes cracking back open a sliver, almost silver with the reflected light from the tv. “Put in a fence,” he said and then added piteously, “Got a ton of slivers.”

“You poor thing,” Stiles said. “Your body doesn’t just reject those?”

Derek gave him an annoyed look. “I heal fast,” he said. “My skin isn’t splinter repellent.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he said. “Still got ‘em?”

Derek nodded, and Stiles patted him on the ankle. “Come on then, tough guy. Let’s find the tweezers and I’ll dig them out for you.”

He got off the couch and Derek followed him into the bathroom, where he completely forgot to ask what the fence was _for_.

-

Stiles found out three days later, when he went out to Derek’s place with Scott. Derek had actually asked Scott over, not Stiles, because he wanted help moving some fallen trees at the edge of the treeline, but Stiles figured that just because he didn’t have superhuman strength didn’t mean he couldn’t help (and even if not, he was _not_ going to pass up the chance to rope Derek into his lumberjack fantasies, sorry not sorry; the thought of Derek and his beard and a chainsaw was _doing_ things to him).

After the shell of his former family home had finally been torn down, Derek paid a significant sum of money to have an acre and a half of the surrounding woods clear-cut, and upon that newly cleared land he’d built himself a comfortable house - a little on the small side when it came to hosting the pack, but plenty big enough for Derek (and now, sometimes, Stiles). Behind it, Derek’s garden, and beyond that, almost in the trees, his beehives, no fences around any of it because there were no natural creatures that’d dare encroach on a werewolf’s property. (Derek didn’t even have to wear protection when he checked on his bees; he said they _knew_ his nearby presence kept them safe and therefore didn’t consider him a threat. Stiles didn’t know how Derek knew that, but he was vaguely jealous all the same.)

Derek was leaving the house when they pulled up, and he offered Scott a friendly nod as he got out of the car. Stiles received one of Derek’s faint smiles, and he grinned in return; those smiles were becoming less rare with every week of peace in their lives, but he still treasured them nonetheless. And even better than the smile, Derek was wearing a dark plaid shirt, like he fucking _knew_ Stiles’ kinks - and from the way his smile went a little smug when Stiles stared at him, Stiles was pretty sure he did know. It didn’t even matter that Stiles was pretty sure that was _his_ shirt. God damn.

“Hey man,” Scott said cheerfully, blissfully - or perhaps intentionally - oblivious to Derek and Stiles’ staredown. “You ready to get to work?”

“Mm,” Derek said, finally dragging his eyes away from Stiles, a smug expression still on his face. “Let me grab the chainsaw.”

He led them around the back of the house between two garden beds - vegetables on one side, flowers on the other, bees buzzing merrily back and forth between them - toward the garden shed. It was only then that Stiles noticed the fencing that Derek had put up. “Oh, hey,” he said. “I forgot to ask what - huh?” Something on the other side of the fence, tan and on all fours, suddenly moved, bolting toward the fence, and Stiles skittered sideways into Scott in surprise. “What the fuck is that?”

Derek swung his head around, his face brightening. “Oh,” he said. “Forgot to tell you. Come meet her.” And he swung around to the right, heading straight for the fence, which Stiles now saw formed a big square.

“Her?” Stiles repeated. _“Who?”_

“Oh, neat!” Scott said, reaching the fence before he did. “When’d you get her?”

“Yesterday,” Derek said, looking pleased with himself. Stiles warily leaned around him, stiffening when he saw that _she_ was a fucking _goat_ roughly the size and color of a yellow lab, a dark stripe down her spine. She stared at him with her evil-looking frog eyes, clearly sizing him up and finding him wanting, because she turned her head to sniff at the hand Scott offered her. Stiles cringed at the sound her tongue made when she licked his palm. 

“Why?” he asked Derek, who gave him a startled look. 

“Why what?”

“Why a goat?” Stiles asked hoarsely. “Why not something normal, like a dog? Or if you’re going to do the farm thing, why not start small, with some freakin’ chickens?”

Derek frowned at him. “I found her on Craigslist,” he said, like that explained anything. “She was free.”

“Yeah, there’s probably a good reason for that,” Stiles said, taking a couple steps back. Just seeing her weird-ass face made his skin crawl. 

“I think she’s cute,” Scott said, the traitor. “What’s her name?”

“Helga,” Derek said. At Stiles’ strangled noise, he added, a little defensively, “I didn’t name her.”

“Sure,” Stiles said. “Sure. Look, can we get to chopping down trees or whatever?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “The trees are already down,” he said irritably, but to Stiles’ relief he turned away from the fence and headed back toward the shed. Stiles scurried after him gratefully, casting one last baleful at Helga, who returned his look with a wide-eyed stare of her own. Stiles shuddered, but as long as she stayed on her side of the fence and he didn’t have to go near her again, he’d be fine. 

At any rate, Helga was soon forgotten in the afternoon heat, all three of them working up a sweat as they cleared the treeline, not stopping until the shadows began to grow long. Scott headed back to the apartment, but Stiles stayed - Derek said he’d give him a ride back later. They each took a shower to wash off the day’s sweat, and though Stiles was a little disappointed to see Derek changed out of the plaid shirt, he didn’t say anything; Derek was quiet over dinner, his gaze far away. Stiles thought he might be tired from the day, but there was a faint furrow to his brow that made Stiles worry. 

“Hey,” he said quietly, gently nudging his knee against Derek’s. “You okay?”

Derek looked at him for a long moment, his broad chest rising and falling steadily, before he said, “Why don’t you want me to see your dad?”

Stiles blinked, startled by the question. “What? When did I say that?”

“You said he doesn’t need a reason to come over here,” Derek said. He paused, something like worry flickering over his face before he said, “Why?”

“Oh, no,” Stiles said immediately. “That’s not - I just meant - ” He made himself stop and take a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “I just didn’t want to rush anything. We’ve only been doing this a couple months, and I didn’t want you to feel pressured, like we had to put a label on anything. I wanted to be sure we were on the same page before taking a big step forward.”

Derek’s expression didn’t change; Stiles couldn’t tell what was going through his head. “You think me meeting your dad is a big step forward?”

Stiles winced; it sounded dumb when said out loud. “I know you’ve _met_ him before,” he said, “but it’s different with us - doing this thing. He obviously means a lot to me, and you do too, so I just...don’t want to fuck things up.”

He watched Derek anxiously for his response, and relief flooded his body when Derek actually smiled. “You’re not going to fuck things up,” Derek told him. “There’s nothing your dad could do or say that would change how I feel about you.”

“Which is positively, right?” Stiles joked.

Derek snorted. “Ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“Good enough,” Stiles said with a grin. “But - seriously. We’re doing good, right?”

One side of Derek’s mouth tilted up. “I like to think so.”

“Awesome,” Stiles said, relaxing fully. “You wanna go make out on the couch for a while?”

 _“Yeah,”_ Derek said fervently, his eyes flashing blue. Stiles grinned, warm satisfaction spreading through his chest at how _into_ him Derek was (and, no point in being modest, how into Derek _he_ was), and headed for the living room, purposefully over-exaggerating the sway of his hips as he walked. He gave a shout of laughter when Derek caught up with him, curling his arms around Stiles’ midriff, Stiles’ laugh trailing off into a groan when Derek sunk his teeth into the tender place where his neck met his shoulder. 

They _did_ make out on the couch for a while, but soon moved to Derek’s bedroom, where Stiles looped his arms around Derek’s neck and industriously sucked a bruise onto his collarbone while Derek carefully divested him of his pants and boxes and then turned him around, directing him onto the bed on his hands and knees so he could - 

“Fuck,” Stiles sighed as Derek dug his fingers into the swell of his asscheeks, spreading him open so he could lick a thick line over Stiles’ hole. “You like to go straight for the good part, huh?”

Derek made a low noise of pleasure that went straight to Stiles’ dick, his fingers curling against the comforter as Derek went to town. Stiles sank onto one elbow, his other hand going to his dick, jerking himself off slowly, not wanting to get off too soon. He was just starting to peak, heady pleasure building along his spine and down to his fingers and toes, when a soft noise made him lift his head. 

The window over the bed was open to let the cool night air roll in, and Stiles could see _something_ on the other side of the screen, its eyes reflecting the light from the bedroom, the dark shape of its head just visible in the gloom. Stiles froze, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

“Stiles?” Derek murmured, rubbing his cheek against Stiles’ ass. “You okay?”

“Someone’s outside,” Stiles whispered, his entire body suddenly clammy with fear. 

Derek jerked him backward, his back smacking against Derek’s hot chest, and his skin crawled at the snarl that came out of Derek’s mouth, loud and threatening. The thing beyond the window made a terrified bleating noise and disappeared into the darkness.

“Oh,” Derek said, his whole body relaxing. “It was just Helga.”

 _“Just?”_ Stiles spluttered. He felt like his heart was about to escape through his ribs. “Jesus freakin’ Christ.”

“She must have gotten out somehow,” Derek said, getting off the bed with a frown. “Hold on - I’ve got to go catch her.”

“Ugh,” Stiles said discontentedly, flopping down onto the bed as Derek left the room. He rubbed his sternum moodily, waiting for his heartbeat to calm. Talk about a fucking boner killer. Cockblocked by a goat. 

Derek came back into the house a couple minutes later, and Stiles heard him wash his hands in the kitchen before he came back into the bedroom. “Sorry,” he breathed, settling down next to Stiles. “You okay?”

“Hmm,” Stiles said ambivalently, still feeling bitter.

Derek leaned down, brushing his nose against Stiles’ shoulder. “You want to keep going?”

“Sorry man,” Stiles said, rolling over to look up at him. “My boner got scared away.”

“Oh,” Derek said. He looked a little crestfallen, but soon rallied to ask, “You want to watch some _Planet Earth?”_

Stiles socked him in the thigh. “Always, you nerd.”

-

The next morning, heading out to Derek’s car for a ride home, Stiles was prepared to swear Helga sneered at him triumphantly. He glared at her the whole way down the driveway.

-

Stiles has been Derek’s go-to housesitter for years, even before they started dating, though he wasn’t sure why, exactly, Derek trusted him over anyone else. Stiles went through all his drawers anyway (the most scandalous things Derek owned were a hot pink bathrobe Cora had gotten him for Christmas one year (that he used!!) and, for some reason, three copies of the _Mean Girls_ DVD. Also an amazingly varied dildo collection, but since these were also sometimes used on Stiles, he’d take that secret to his grave.). 

Anyway, the point was, he always said yes when Derek asked him, so he didn’t even think twice before saying yes this time, except then Derek followed his request with “Good, I don’t want to leave Helga alone.”

Oh right, the hellspawn. Derek had had her for about three weeks at this point, and Stiles had managed to avoid going anywhere near her, though he still caught sight of her from time to time, glaring at him. Worse, subtle digging had proved he was the only one of the pack who seemed to dislike her; Scott was a total bleeding-heart for animals of all kinds, Kira thought she was adorable, Lydia kept taking pictures of her for Instagram, and even Liam, who didn’t seem to care much about animals, shrugged and said “She’s just a goat, man,” which - friggin’ _exactly._ Malia was the only one who seemed even a little on his side, and apparently for different reasons; she’d stared at Helga for a long time before turning around to declare, “I’m hungry.” Liam, looking concerned, had said, “You know she’s a pet, right? Not food?” to which Malia had responded by growling and putting him in a headlock until Scott intervened.

The last thing Stiles wanted to do was hang around with Helga, but he was also pretty fond of Derek and didn’t want to let him down. It’d be fine; Helga hadn’t gotten out again since that first nice, so all he’d have to do is feed her and leave her alone. “Sure, yeah,” he said, because Derek was still looking at him. “Where are you going, anyway?”

“That’s me,” Scott said, leaning over the back of the couch. “Kira’s coming back from Japan, so I have to go pick her up at LAX, and I want a roadtrip buddy.”

“And you didn’t invite me?” Stiles retorted, outraged. “You’re denying me quality time with my two favorite people?”

Scott grinned. “Stop pouting, man. I’d take you over Derek any day, but you get way too carsick.”

“My prince,” Stiles grinned, at the same time Derek said dryly, “Thanks.”

“It’s just for one night,” Scott said, patting both of them on the shoulder and heading for the kitchen. “I think you can handle it.”

-

Curse Scott and his famous last words. Stiles _was_ doing fine, right up until the point where he wasn't. He successfully avoided Helga until dinner time, when he had to sneak over and dump a load of food in her pen. She watched him the entire time, not moving even when he started watering the garden, which hey, that was fine with him; as unsettling as her baleful stare was, her not moving was preferable to any movement at all. Helga fed, plants watered, Stiles vegged out for the night, surfing the internet until he passed out.

The next morning, he got up late and took a shower, and then he was standing in the kitchen with a bowl of Cocoa Puffs in one hand and his phone in the other, reading a text from Derek, when a faint noise made him turn around. Helga stood behind him, hooves splayed wide on the tile floor, her head tilted to one side, watching him intently.

For a long moment, all Stiles could do was stare at her, unable to process the fact that she was _in the fucking kitchen._ "Oh, no," he groaned when reality hit him. "Fuuuuuck!"

Helga tilted her head to the other side. He groaned again. Okay. Okay, he could do this. Stiles waved his hand - still clutching his phone - at her. "Go on," he hissed. "Get out of here!"

Helga leveled him with a long stare and then bleated loudly, her voice way too deep for an animal of her size. Stiles startled backward, his cereal slopping over the side of the bowl and splashing onto his bare feet. Helga followed its path curiously, a devilish expression coming over her already devilish face. 

“Don’t you dare,” Stiles said warningly, right as Helga darted at him. Stiles yelped, dropping his bowl in his haste to scramble up onto the kitchen island and out of her range. Helga ignored him for the moment, bending her head to scarf up his spilled cereal. “Helga!” Stiles said angrily. “Get out!”

Helga ignored him wholeheartedly. Stiles threw an apple at her, hoping to scare her off, but all that got him was a bleat of warning before she turned and ate that up too. Not satisfied, Helga began pawing at the cabinet doors until one sprung open and she shoved her head inside. Stiles swore; that was where are the chips were - that was _sacred._

“Helga!” he hissed, swinging his head around, trying to figure out how to drive her out. He needed a broom or something to push her with, but there was nothing in reach, and when he swung down like he was going to get off the island, Helga backed out of the cabinet and bleated menacingly at him. “Fuck you!” he snarled at her. Not his finest moment, sure, trapped on a countertop, swearing at a goat, but he fucking hated goats, all right? And Helga was big enough to do damage if she felt like it. Stiles heaved out a sigh and pulled out his phone. He knew he’d never hear the end of this, but he couldn’t handle this alone.

“Malia?” he said when the phone picked up. “Can you come save me?”

-

By the time Malia showed up, Helga had eaten the entire contents of the chip cabinet and moved on to the fridge, which she’d managed to jostle open by ramming repeatedly. Stiles crouched on the island miserably. He’d tried getting off again and she’d rammed her head against the cabinet so hard the wood cracked. Derek was going to be so pissed. 

Malia, to her credit, didn’t laugh at him. She came striding into the kitchen with her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as she caught sight of Helga rooting through the crisper drawer. Helga spotted Malia at just around the same time, and she seemed to realize the fun was over because she abandoned the fridge, darting around the other side of the island and down the hall toward the bedroom. Malia was after her like a shot; there was a scrambling noise, and by the time Stiles climbed down from the island, Malia came back down the hallway, hauling Helga along by her horns. 

“Hellspawn,” Stiles muttered, feeling stupid and shaken. 

“Brat,” Malia agreed, hauling Helga toward the front door. “I’ll make sure she stays put.”

“How are you going to do that?” Stiles asked, following her outside. “She’s already escaped twice.”

Malia didn’t answer; she picked Helga up and put her over the fence, and then she snarled so fiercely that Stiles felt his own skin break out into goosebumps in a primeval response to the noise. Helga had much the same reaction; she took one look at Malia and zoomed across the corral to hide under the shelter Derek had built for her. “Come on,” Malia said, turning dismissively. “I’ll help you clean up.”

They put the kitchen back together in silence, at least up until the point where Malia dumped an armful of shredded up potato chip bags into the garbage and asked, “What are you going to tell Derek?”

Stiles shrugged, wiping goat spit off the fridge shelves. “I don’t know,” he said. “That his beloved, psychotic goat trapped me in the kitchen? Like that’s going to sound plausible. I don’t even know how she got into the house.”

Malia lifted her head, gazing around the room slowly before walking down the hallway toward the bedrooms. When she came back a moment later, she said, “The bathroom window’s open. There’s a rain barrel below it. She probably jumped on that.”

“Awesome,” Stiles said bitterly. “So I left the window open and let the goat wreck the place.”

Malia looked exasperated. “If you hate the goat so much, just _tell_ Derek.”

“I can’t,” Stiles sighed. “Derek loves the fucking thing.”

“So?” Malia retorted. “He loves you, too.”

“Whoa whoa, hold up,” Stiles said, waving his hands around. “First of all, there’s been no mention of the l-word, okay, so shut up, and second - give and take. That’s part of being in a relationship, remember? He shouldn’t have to chose.”

Malia rolled her eyes. “So _talk_ to him, Stiles. That’s what people in relationships do; you taught me that. I guarantee you he’s noticed something’s wrong - you _reek_ of fear every time you’re around Helga - but the longer you put off telling him, the more time he has to start thinking it’s something else.”

Stiles sighed again. “You’re right,” he said quietly. Then he narrowed his eyes at her. “Just when did you become such a relationship guru?”

Malia flipped him off. “You’re not the only one who went off to college and had fun.”

Stiles snorted. “Well, thanks, anyway. For saving my ass _and_ the advice.”

Malia grinned. “I’ll take my payment in hamburgers.”

“You’re in luck,” Stiles said, grandly throwing open the fridge door. “They’re the one thing Helga didn’t eat.”

-

Stiles was taking his second shower of the day - partially to wash off the fear-sweat, partially to indulge in Derek’s shower, which had amazing water pressure - when Derek came home. It was already getting late in the evening, the sun vanished below the horizon, and Stiles stiffened when he heard movement coming from the kitchen, then relaxed when he heard the clatter of keys on the counter. A moment later, there came a soft knock on the door and Stiles stuck his head around the shower curtain to see Derek standing in the doorway, a faint smile on his face. 

“Hey,” Stiles said, smiling back. Was it weird that even though he’d known Derek for a decade at this point, now that they were dating, seeing Derek always made his chest go warm with fondness? “How was LA?”

“Crowded,” Derek replied. “How were things here?”

“Oh,” Stiles said, suddenly nervous as he remembered that right, he needed to talk to Derek. “Um. Okay. There was, uh, an incident.”

Derek’s expression didn’t change. “Does it have anything to do with the way the kitchen smells like goat?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said guiltily. “Look, can I just, uh, finish up?”

“Sure,” Derek said. He looked at Stiles for a long moment, brow furrowing faintly, before turning and disappearing down the hallway. Stiles ducked back into the shower, his mouth twisting unhappily as he scrubbed shampoo into his hair. He didn’t want this to be a big deal - he didn’t even want to mention it, but Malia was right; the longer he kept this to himself, the more likely it was that Derek was going to start thinking something _else_ was wrong, and the last thing he wanted was to make Derek worry - and judging from the look Derek just gave him, he might have waited too long already. He cared for Derek a lot - like, way more than he should at this point in their relationship, maybe. He didn’t want to fuck it up. 

Stiles sighed and shut off the water, climbing out of the shower. After toweling off and pulling on his boxers and a t-shirt, he headed for the kitchen, where he found Derek sitting at the island on one of the bar stools, eating one of the leftover hamburgers from lunch. “There’s no food in the fridge,” he said to Stiles.

“I know,” Stiles said. “That’s my fault.”

Derek nodded and set down his hamburger. “So?” he said. “Tell me what happened, and then tell me what’s bothering you.”

Stiles sighed again. “Helga got in here this morning.”

Derek raised his eyebrows. “Here? In the house?”

Stiles nodded. “She wrecked the kitchen. That’s why there’s no food. I’ll pay you back for it, though, don’t worry.”

Derek looked around the kitchen as if seeking signs of the chaos, but Stiles and Malia had done a pretty thorough cleaning. Derek shrugged. “I don’t care about the food,” he said, his brow creasing. He looked at Stiles, and Stiles was startled by the worry he saw in Derek’s eyes. “What’s been bothering you?”

Stiles still hesitated. “It’s stupid,” he said reluctantly, because it _was_. He was afraid of a fucking _goat_. 

“It’s not, whatever it is,” Derek said. “You’ve been acting weird since we talked about your dad. If this is - if it’s too soon - ”

“Whoa, hey, no!” Stiles said hurriedly. Fuck, Malia had been right; Derek _had_ started assuming the worst. “That’s not it, okay? Look, it’s just - ” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes before he continued, “It’s Helga.”

Derek’s brow furrowed deeper. “Helga?”

“Yeah,” Stiles confirmed quietly. He took another deep breath and said, “I’m scared of goats, man.”

Derek now looked concerned _and_ confused. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t know, because it sounds idiotic, I guess?” Stiles heaved a sigh. “Look, when I was like six, my mom took me to a petting zoo and I got trampled by goats and - I don’t know, they just scare me. They’ve got those freaky frog eyes, and - ”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupted quietly. “You don’t have to justify your fears to me.”

“I know,” Stiles said quietly. “It’s just - with all the things we’ve seen, all the stuff that’s happened to us...being afraid of something so stupid - ”

“We all have our irrational fears,” Derek told him. “When I was a kid, Laura scared me when I was in the shower. I slipped and broke my arm - it healed, but I couldn’t take showers for about five years after that. Even now, I can only use the clear shower curtains. Sometimes that stuff just stays with you.”

“I thought you were just cheap,” Stiles said. 

Derek smiled faintly, shifting around on the stool so he could reach for Stiles, though he did it slowly, like he was afraid Stiles might pull away. Stiles, though, was happy to step into the space between his knees, some of the nervous tension leaving him when Derek put his hands on his hips, the weight of them warm and reassuring. “I want you to be able to relax when you come over here,” Derek told Stiles. “If she makes you that uncomfortable, I’ll find her a new home.”

“Oh, no way, man,” Stiles said instantly. As much as he really _would_ have liked it, he couldn’t do that to Derek; he kept seeing the pleased look Derek had had on his face the day he’d introduced Stiles and Scott to Helga. “This is your house. I don’t have any right to dictate what kind of pets you get.”

“Maybe not,” Derek said quietly, his thumbs sweeping back and forth over Stiles’ hip bones. “But I don’t love Helga, Stiles. I love _you.”_

Stiles went very still, his lips parting in surprise. “You - you do?” he said hoarsely. 

Derek nodded slowly, his eyes not leaving Stiles’ face. “I do,” he said steadily. “And I know we were just talking about moving too fast, so I don’t expect you to feel the same way, but - ”

“I do too,” Stiles interrupted, his voice almost a croak. “I don’t care if we’re moving too fast - I love you too.”

One of Derek’s rare, brilliant smiles broke across his face; he looked so pleased that Stiles couldn’t help but lean in and kiss him, curling his hands around the back of his neck to pull him in close. Derek was still smiling when they pulled apart, and Stiles felt that familiar nervous flutter in his stomach and realized - oh, that’s _love._

“What do you want to do about Helga?” Derek asked him.

“Whatever you want as long as I get to keep seeing that smile,” Stiles told him, grinning, and it was true. Screw Helga; they’d probably never get along, but he’d put up with her for Derek’s sake. He’d be fine.

-

(Stiles thought Derek went out and had a chat with Helga about boundaries; like the bees, she seemed to respect Derek, and never broke into the house again. Out of the corral? Certainly. Two weeks later, they were at Stiles’ dad’s house for the long-awaited dinner, and Derek was doing admirably despite being nervous as hell (which Stiles really didn’t understand, by the way; Derek and his dad had met like a thousand times. They’d solved crimes together!). Stiles’ dad stepped outside to take a call from work, and while he was out on the porch, Stiles stroked his hand up and down Derek’s arm and said, “He likes you, man, you know that.”

“He thought I was growing pot!” Derek hissed.

“It’s in his nature to be suspicious,” Stiles said, pointing out, “He’s a cop. Besides, I thought you said there was nothing he could do or say that would change how you felt about me.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Derek grumbled. 

“Oh, come on,” Stiles said, patting him on the shoulder. “It’s not like he’s going to shoot you or anything. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Well,” Stiles’ father said, coming back inside, stowing his phone in his pocket as he went. “Seems like we’ve got a loose goat on the west side of town. You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you, Derek?”

Stiles burst into laughter. Derek’s cheeks turned bright red, while the rest of his face went white. “I - I need to go,” he said in a strangled voice. 

“Don’t worry, son,” Stiles’ dad said, winking at Stiles. “They already caught her. Someone will bring her back to your place. You guys ready to eat?”

“Oh crap,” Stiles said loudly as they headed for the dining room. “Der, you forgot to put away all your drug paraphernalia.” 

Derek shoved him into the wall, his cheeks still bright red. “You’re an asshole,” he hissed, while Stiles’ dad laughed. 

Stiles grinned at him. “Welcome to the family.”)


	80. Chapter 80

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** Wolf!Derek is found half dead and smelling like skunk by the Sheriff on his doorstep.
> 
>  **Pairing:** None
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, wolf!Derek, injured animals

“All right, old man,” Stiles says. “Time’s up. What’s it gonna be?”

His father scowls. “Oh, fine. I say…10-70.”

Stiles scoffs. “Fire alarm? Too easy.”

“I don’t care about easy, I want the damn ice cream,” his father says defiantly. “What do you bet?”

“10-94,” Stiles says promptly, and his father’s eyebrows rise so high they nearly disappear.

“Drag racing?” he says skeptically. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one come over the radio.”

“Then it’s about time, huh?” Stiles says winningly. “Think about it, Dad. School’s out. Kids just got their licenses. Fancy cars for graduation gifts. It’s a perfect storm!”

“Speaking of school, aren’t there any summer classes you can take?” his dad complains. “I don’t need you breathing down my neck every day.”

“Oh, c’mon, Dad,” Stiles grins. “You love me.”

His father gives him a wry smile, and then they both snap their attention to the scanner when the dispatcher announces, “10-70, Ladder 10 en route.”

“Hah!” Stiles’ father says triumphantly. “I win. I want Rocky Road, and it better not be that fake soy stuff.”

“That soy stuff is good for you!” Stiles protests. “C’mon - double or nothing.”

“I’ll take that bet,” his father says. “Same calls?”

Stiles squints, thinking hard. “I’m going with 10-57.”

His father snorts. “Good luck with that. I’m sticking with 10-70.”

They both fall silently, waiting expectantly, but no call comes over the radio for a while. After ten quiet minutes, Stiles’ dad puts the cruiser into gear and they drive around some sleepy neighborhoods, the dark streets silent. Finally, the radio crackles into life, but neither of them win this round: “Advising 10-45 on Route 100 south of Beacon Hills, any units available?”

Stiles grimaces. “Oh, gross. Don’t take it, Dad.”

No one else is radioing in, however, and his father sighs, reaching for the radio. “It’s not all chasing bad guys, son. This is Unit 48, 10-76. We know what kind of animal?”

“Caller said it looked like a big dog, sheriff,” the dispatcher radios back, and both Stilinskis sigh. Dead dog in the road. 

It’s not long before they reach the place in question, a quiet stretch of highway in the middle of the woods. There’s a dark lump of fur splayed across the double yellow line, and Stiles keeps his head turned to the side so he doesn’t really have to look at it. “Is it okay if I stay here?”

“You’re not on the clock,” his father sighs, pulling off to the side of the road. Stiles stares into the woods, listening to his dad get out of the car and go around to the trunk, where he rummages around for a moment - probably getting a trash bag, Stiles thinks, feeling a little sick. He can see his dad walk out into the road, bending over to look at the animal, and then he’s shouting, “Stiles, he’s still alive! I need a hand!”

Swallowing hard, Stiles scrambles out of the cruiser, trotting over to where his dad’s standing, starkly light by the bright lights from the car. He avoids looking at the dog until he’s too close to put it off, and what he sees is a huge black-brown male dog laying on its side, panting harshly. There’s an large open wound on his side, the flesh torn open, dark blood pooling on the asphalt underneath it. Stiles swallows again. “What do you want me to do?”

“I - ” His father heaves a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure. County pound’s closed, and so’s Deaton’s clinic. I thought we could take it somewhere, but…there’s nowhere to take it to. I might just have to put it out of its misery.”

Stiles winces, crouching down to get a better look at the dog, though he avoids looking at the wound in his side. “What if it belongs to someone, though?”

His father shakes his head. “It doesn’t have a collar, Stiles. A responsible owner wouldn’t be letting their dog run loose. It’s probably a stray.”

“That’s not fair,” Stiles says quietly. The dog moves for the first time, lifting his head to look at Stiles with startlingly pale green eyes, and Stiles is struck by the intelligence in them. He shakes his head. “You can’t kill him, Dad.”

His father makes a frustrated noise. “What am I supposed to do, then? There’s an emergency vet in Redding, but I can’t waste department time taking it there.”

“Let me take him home,” Stiles suggests. “Scott can help; he works with Dr. Deaton.” Too late does he remember that Scott’s in San Diego with Kira, but he doesn’t take back the offer, staring earnestly up at his dad. 

His dad sighs. “Fine. If he lasts the night, we’ll take him to the vet in the morning.”

“At the very least, he’s not going to die alone,” Stiles says softly. His dad ruffles his hair before pulling out a pair of rubber gloves and handing them to Stiles, then pulling out another pair for himself. 

“You stay here,” his father commands. “I’m going to spread a towel over the back seat so we don’t make a mess.”

“‘kay,” Stiles says, his eyes on the dog. He’s still watching Stiles, still panting harshly. Stiles cautiously inches a little closer, stretching out his hand. He knows injured animals are more likely to lash out in pain and fear, but this dog’s smarter than that; he can see it in his eyes. It doesn’t flinch when he gently pets his head, his fur silky-smooth, but the dog bumps his nose against Stiles’ palm and he grins. “There,” he says. “You’re gonna make it. You’re a big guy; you can tough this out.”

“Stiles,” his dad says exasperatedly, returning to his side. “You’re going to get yourself _bit.”_

“Nah,” Stiles says. “I think we’ve got an understanding.”

“Understanding or not, put this on him,” his father says sternly, handing him a muzzle. “He could lash out instinctively when we move him.”

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters. “You have this in the car?”

His father spreads his hands expansively. “Sometimes, we’re the police, sometimes we’re the dog catchers. Depends on the call.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose, leaning over the dog. “Sorry about this, man,” he says to the dog. “Please don’t bite me for this.” 

The dog puts his ears back, but he submits to being muzzled without a fight, and then Stiles and his dad have to wrangle him across the road and into the back of the cruiser. It’s not easy; the dog is _big_ , and he weighs a ton, and he whimpers when they pick him up. “Sorry buddy,” Stiles pants, staggering across the asphalt with his arms hooked under the animal’s ribcage - his dad’s got the hind end. “Couldn’t hurt to put you on a diet, huh?”

_“Stiles,”_ his dad groans. 

“I’m putting you on a diet too,” Stiles mutters. “‘Don’t want the soy stuff.’ Hah!”

They manage to get the dog onto the towel in the back of the cruiser and then take a break, leaning against the side of the car while they get their breath back. 

“I didn’t think dogs _got_ that big,” Stiles sighs. 

“It’s more like a wolf,” his dad agrees, rubbing wearily at his brow. They both pause, looking at each other uncertainly, then through the tinted window at the dog in the back seat. “Nah,” his father says eventually. “No wolves in California.”

“Yeah, you just remember that when you come home tomorrow and I’ve been torn to bits,” Stiles says. He looks down at his blood-stained shirt and grimaces. “Mind taking us home now?”

Stiles watches the dog the entire way home, twisted in his seat so he can see through the plexiglass window that separates the front from the back. He seems to be a little more alert; his head is up, and he seems to be watching the houses and trees fly past the window. 

Once they’re back at the house, the dog startles both of them by climbing out of the back by himself, albeit stiffly and very very slowly. “Maybe it’s not as bad as we thought,” Stiles says hopefully, watching the dog look around their front yard. 

His father shrugs. “Could be. They’re resilient animals. You going to be all right?”

“I think so,” Stiles says thoughtfully. He crouches down and carefully takes off the muzzle, scratching the dog behind the ears when his only reaction is to yawn widely. “I should probably get him inside and cleaned up.”

“Call me if there’s any trouble,” his dad says, getting back into his cruiser. Stiles waves as he backs down the driveway, then exhales roughly, looking down at the dog. He’s got no collar or leash or anyway to guide the dog inside, but he’s got this feeling that the dog’s not interested in going anywhere else; sure enough, when Stiles takes a couple cautious steps toward the house, the dog follows stiffly. 

“Good boy,” Stiles says encouragingly. He’s almost certain he sees the dog’s tail wag in response.

The front steps are a challenge; the dog stops at the bottom, eyeing them uncertainly. “Come on,” Stiles coaxes. “You can do it, I know you can.”

The dog gives him a baleful look and scrambles up the steps quickly, whining at the movement. Stiles winces; there go his plans of getting the dog upstairs and into the bathtub for easy cleaning. He’ll have to use the downstairs shower stall instead, which is going to be a hell of a lot messier, not to mention cramped. He pats the dog on the head anyway. “I knew you had it in you,” he says, and the dog glowers at him. 

Cleaning is exactly zero percent fun for either of them; the dog shakes piteously the entire time, and Stiles gets water _everywhere._ He doesn’t bother trying to actually use soap on the dog, but at least he gets most of the blood and dirt off him, and Stiles is relieved to see that the wound on the dog’s side doesn’t look half as bad as it did out on the road. 

He towels the dog off with one of the old towels from under the sink, specifically kept there for cleaning up messes, and carefully avoids the wound on his side. The dog seems to like this part; he leans into Stiles’ hands, eyes closed and tongue lolling out of his mouth, tail wagging juuust a little. Stiles laughs, pleased. 

After a quick shower of his own, Stiles runs upstairs to grab some clothes and medical supplies, and then comes back down to find the dog exploring the living room, running his nose along the couch cushions. Stiles pauses for a second to watch him; he’s definitely moving better now, and the wound on his side seems to be closing up already. Still, Stiles cleans the wound with iodine, which the dog does _not_ like; he whines very quietly and presses his cold nose to Stiles’ temple. 

“I know,” Stiles murmurs, dabbing gently at the wound with a cotton ball. “It sucks, but you don’t want it to get infected. That could hurt worse than the car that hit you.”

The dog sighs but doesn’t move away, allowing Stiles to dab on an antiseptic cream. He’s not sure it’s the right thing to do, but Scott hasn’t responded to his texts about animal care, so he’s winging it. It’s about as good as it’s going to get, anyway, until they can get him to the vet in the morning, so Stiles heads into the kitchen to wash his hands, and he’s undeniably pleased when the dog follows him, sticking close to his heels like a shadow.

“You must have belonged to someone,” he murmurs, wiping his wet hands on his pants and crouching down again to rub the dog’s ears. He’s too well behaved, well fed, well groomed - now that he’s been washed, the dog’s coat is drying to a deep rich brown, fluffy and free of knots. Maybe he broke free of his collar. Maybe there was someone out there looking for him. Stiles kind of hopes not; he’s starting to get a little attached.

“You hungry?” Stiles asks, and the dog’s pointed ears prick forward. “I think after such a stressful night, we both deserve a treat.” He gives the dog a couple chicken sausages, and while he wolfs those down, Stiles treats himself to the ice cream he’s hidden in the freezer under a stack of frozen vegetable bags. 

They wander back into the living room after a while, where Stiles collapses onto the couch. He pats the cushions idly and tells the dog, “You’re welcome up here if you can get up.” After seeing how the dog treated the stairs outside, he’s not sure he’ll be able to, but to his surprise, the dog makes a graceful leap onto the couch and settles down next to Stiles, curling himself into a tight little ball, tail covering his eyes. 

“That’s pretty cute,” Stiles remarks, and the dog lifts its head, catching Stiles’ hand between its teeth in a lightning-fast move. He doesn’t bite down, just holds Stiles’ hand in his teeth, but Stiles gets it. “Point taken,” he says apologetically, and the dog lets him go, licking his palm before tucking his face back under his tail. 

Stiles falls asleep there, empty ice cream container in one hand, his other resting on the dog’s soft back. He wakes with an ache in his neck and a blanket he doesn’t remember grabbing pulled across him, his ice cream container set on the coffee table in front of him. The dog’s not next to him - he’s not in the room at all. Stiles, frowning, gets up and wanders through the house, but there’s no sign of the dog. He doesn’t get it; if his dad had come home and taken the dog to the vet, he would have woken Stiles, and all the doors are locked, so he couldn’t have slipped out somehow. 

He’s in the kitchen, running a bewildered hand through his hair, when he spots a piece of paper sitting on the counter. He picks it up, forehead wrinkling in confusion as he reads it the brief note. 

_Thank you._

_\- Derek_

“Derek?” Stiles repeats out loud. “Who the fuck is Derek?”

-

A couple days later, Stiles is at the grocery store, dutifully buying his dad’s requested Rocky Road ice cream - not the soy stuff. He’s heading for the registers when he spots a man he’s never seen in town before, but there’s something about him that’s oddly familiar. The man catches him staring, his pale green eyes snapping to Stiles’, but he just can’t shake it; he _knows_ him. 

“Can I help you?” the man asks him, sounding a little amused. 

“Do I - have we met before?” Stiles asks. He _knows_ he’d recognize this face, handsome as it is, but he has no _idea_ who the man is. 

“You tell me,” the man says, his amusement growing.

Stiles makes a frustrated noise; he knows when he’s being laughed at. “What’s your name?”

The man smiles faintly. “Derek.”

“Derek?” Stiles repeats, and the man’s smile grows wider. Stiles’ lips part in shock as he remembers the note left in the kitchen. _“Derek?”_


	81. Chapter 81

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** Stiles or Derek runs a bed and breakfast and the other comes in because their car broke down a couple miles down and they're 5 hours from home.
> 
>  **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
>  **Rating:** Explicit
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, lumberjack!Derek

Stiles was lost somewhere halfway up a mountain. He lost signal on his phone about forty-five minutes ago, and lost signal on his GPS about ten minutes after that, which really should have been his signal to turn around and find a different route, but he hadn’t worried because it wasn’t like he was some old dirt road - this one was paved and seemed reasonably well-kept. At some point, though, he’d come to a fork where he’d had to make a decision without the help of any maps, so he’d made what he hoped was the right decision and even then he didn’t worry - at least, not until the the Jeep began emitting very loud and, unfortunately, familiar clunking noises. 

“Oh no,” Stiles groaned, watching the temperature gauge skyrocket toward the red danger zone. “No, no, no! _Fuck!”_ This last exclamation came when white steam began rolling out from under the hood. 

Muttering furiously to himself, Stiles launched himself out of the Jeep, stomping around to the front to jolt the hood up. He had to step aside to let the steam clear and took advantage of the moment to look around at his surroundings: woods, mostly, and an empty road disappearing through the woods before and behind him. He squinted up at the mountain, narrowing his eyes at the darkening clouds beyond its peak. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled, pointing a finger toward the sky.

Stiles bent over the hood, prodding irritably at lines and caps. His dad was going to be so pissed when he heard about this; he’d been getting after Stiles to get a new car for _years_ now but Stiles was - as always - stubborn, and dug his heels in. It wasn’t even sentimentality for his very first car at this point; Stiles hated the fucking thing, and he was going to run it into the ground because it fucking _deserved_ it. This might be the last straw, though; Stiles made a wordless noise of rage when he spotted the crack in the radiator, right where it had been the _last_ time this happened. That was a couple hundred bucks he didn’t have.

“You fucking piece of shit,” he hissed, slamming the hood shut. There wasn’t anything he could do about it himself, and since he didn’t have any cell phone service, he could either wait there for help to pass him by, or he could go find it himself. Stiles sighed. He couldn’t remember how far back the last house he’d seen was, or even the last time he’d seen a car on this road. Wherever he was, it was far enough out of the way that it didn’t see a lot of travelers.

Stiles heaved another sigh, running his hands through his hair as he rounded the Jeep, pulling the back hatch open. His dad, the good cop, had taught him a lot of things. One of them was if he was lost, to stay in place, but Stiles didn’t really think he’d be seeing anyone on this road anytime soon, and anyway, he wasn’t planning on leaving the road unless he found a driveway. Furthermore, he decided, he’d only go an hour down the road. If he didn’t find anything, he’d come back to the Jeep and tough it out for the night. He’d even leave a note on the car indicating which way he’d gone; that way, if anyone _did_ come by, they’d know to keep looking. Easy.

Stiles hauled his duffle bag over his shoulder, not wanting to leave it in the car, and set off down the road. He figured uphill was better; even if there were no houses, he might be able to get a signal on his phone. It wasn’t pleasant; his bag was heavy, and there were sections of the uphill that were really steep. The wind was starting to pick up, and he could tell it was going to start raining soon, which was just his luck.

But for once, luck _was_ on his side; just as it began to rain, water pattering down on his shoulders and on the leafy boughs above him, Stiles rounded a sharp curve in the road and spotted a sign a couple hundred yards further down. Spirits lifting a little, Stiles hurried close enough to read it: _Quaking Oak Inn._ Beyond it, a dirt driveway wound its way into the trees.

“Thank God,” Stiles muttered, readjusting the bag over his shoulder and taking off down the lane.

It was another five minutes of walking before he saw the place; the trees cleared away, and a long, two-story building sat before him. Stiles’ spirits dropped a little; the place looked empty, no cars in the lot or lights on inside, but hey, there was a porch, at least - it was really starting to rain now, the sky darkening overhead.

Stiles trotted across the lawn and dropped his bag at the top of the stairs, pushing his wet hair out of his face. He tried the door but it was locked; he banged on it with his fist, calling, “Hey, anyone home?”

No one answered. Stiles cupped his hands over his eyes and peered through the window, but the room beyond it was deserted, the furniture covered in sheets. He sighed, thunking his forehead against the glass. He’d spoken too soon; once again, his luck had been against him. Stiles fished his phone out of his pocket; still no service, and it’d started to pour. Maybe he’d wait here a while, see if the rain didn’t lessen. He certainly didn’t relish the thought of walking back to the Jeep in this deluge; his sweatshirt was already damp and making him shiver. Maybe he could break into the place and camp out. Maybe there was a phone that still had service. 

Stiles was seriously entertaining this notion, about to start casting around for a rock to break the window with, when an unfriendly voice behind him said, “Can I help you?”

Stiles yelped in surprise, spinning around so violently he smacked his elbow against the house, doubling him over with a groan. “Ow, fuck!” he moaned with great feeling, lifting his head only to freeze.

A very handsome man stood on the lawn in front of him - a very handsome man with an axe over his shoulder. _RIP me_ , Stiles thought nervously, seemingly unable to unbend himself from his hunched position. Typical; he was going to be slaughtered by a maniac with an axe. He could just hear his dad now, sarcastically asking if he had _any_ sense at all. Apparently not.

“Can I help you?” the man asked again, his impatient tone indicating that he’d like to do nothing of the sort. “The inn’s not open for the season yet.”

Stiles winced, finally forcing himself to straighten up, his elbow throbbing vengefully. “I’m not looking for a room,” he said cautiously, eyeing the axe uneasily. “I just need a phone. My car broke down.”

The man looked at him skeptically for a long moment before shrugging fluidly. “Fine,” he said shortly. “Come with me.”

Stiles balked at this, because the man was turning, apparently heading toward the woods. “Not - inside?” he asked.

The man threw him an irritated look. “Everything’s locked up,” he said. “There’s a phone in my cabin.”

“Your cabin….where?” Stiles said cautiously. 

“Around the back,” the man said impatiently. “Do you want to make a phone call or not?”

“Yes,” Stiles said. “But I also don’t want to get axe-murdered.”

The man glanced at the axe over his shoulder and seemed almost surprised to see it there. “Understandable,” he said dryly, shifting the axe off his shoulder and leaning it up against the side of the porch. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, relaxing a little. “Thanks.”

To his surprise, the man actually offered him a faint smile, and this time when he began moving toward the trees, Stiles picked up his duffle bag and followed. It was still raining hard, the wind blowing the rain almost sideways, so they moved quickly. Stiles was soon soaked to the skin, and the man - even though he himself was wearing a thick canvas jacket that seemed to be waterproof - seemed to be aware of this, because he said, “It’s just around here,” and curved around the side of the inn. Stiles saw, with some relief, that there really was a cabin there, not in the woods, but tucked up under the trees at the edge of the sloping backyard. There was a truck parked there too, so this guy really wasn’t some nutjob who’d wandered out of the trees - he hoped. 

Stiles sighed with relief when they stepped into the cabin; it was small inside, but warm, a welcome reprieve from the bitterly cold rain. Looking around surreptitiously as he dropped his duffle to the floor, it certainly didn’t seem like a place that belonged to a murder; the one-room cabin was cluttered without being messy, most of the available surfaces and shelves covered in books. “You live here year-round?” he asked curiously.

“Yeah,” the man said, shrugging off his coat. Stiles swallowed hard at the way the shirt he wore underneath it clung to his muscles; now was _not_ the time to develop a crush. “I’m the caretaker. My sisters run it - they’ll be back in a couple of weeks to open the place for the season.” 

“Don’t you get lonely?” Stiles asked. He thought he’d probably go nuts if he had to spend months alone in a tiny cabin.

“Not really,” the man replied. “I don’t like people all that much.”

“Oh,” Stiles said uncomfortably. “Sorry for intruding, then. If I can just use your phone, I’ll be on my way soon.”

“It’s on the wall over there,” the man said, nodding his head toward a corner of the room that formed a tiny kitchenette. “I don’t mind, though,” he added, giving Stiles another faint smile. “There usually comes a point in the spring when I really do miss people.”

“Oh,” Stiles said again with a relieved grin of his own. “That’s good, because I don’t know how long it’s going to take someone to get out here and give me a tow.”

“Might be longer than you want,” the man replied. “The nearest shop is closed on Sundays.”

“Seriously?” Stiles groaned. 

The man snorted. “Hope you don’t need to be anywhere.”

Stiles sighed. “Not really. I was in Bend for a job interview, and I was supposed to be heading home. I’m Stiles, by the way,” he added. 

“Derek,” the man said, offering his hand. 

Stiles shook it. “Mind if I use your phone anyway? I need to let my dad know I’m not going to be home anytime soon.”

Derek nodded. “Better do it now,” he said, as thunder rumbled off into the distance. “I think this storm’s going to be a rough one.”

Stiles grimaced. “Awesome.” He moved into the kitchenette and grabbed the phone from its base, dialing his dad’s number from memory.

“Only you, Stiles,” his dad sighed after they’d connected and Stiles had filled him in.

“Hey, it was supposed to be a shortcut!” Stiles protested, grinning guiltily at Derek, who was making a pot of coffee. Derek snorted quietly. “I didn’t know my car was going to break down.”

“Well, just take care of yourself,” his dad said. “If you need me to pay for a room - ”

“I got it,” Stiles said. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be fine. I’ll give you a call when I’m back on the road.”

“Be safe,” his dad said gently. 

Stiles hung up the phone as another rumble of thunder sounded overhead, closer than the last. “You’re welcome to take a shower if you want,” Derek told him, leaning against the counter. “You look cold.”

“Are you trying to get me out of my clothes?” Stiles teased, remembering too late that he didn’t actually know Derek at all and, in fact, had suspected he was an axe-murderer mere minutes ago. 

Derek’s cheeks went bright red but all he said was, in a surprisingly even tone, “There are towels under the sink in the bathroom.”

“Right,” Stiles said, mortified at himself. “I’ll just, uh, do that.” He dived for his duffle bag and escaped to the bathroom, a small room off the back of the cabin. He cursed himself and his big mouth; he had no idea how long he was going to be stuck here, and he’d already managed to make things awkward in the first fifteen minutes. Fuck his stupid fucking luck; of _course_ he’d end up stuck in a tiny cabin with the hottest man he’d met in _years._

The shower was hot and felt good, but it did little to mollify him; he got out still feeling like his face was on fire. When he got dressed and left the bathroom, Derek stood by one of the windows, sipping a cup of coffee as he watched the rain pour down outside, though he turned to look at Stiles when he came out of the bathroom.

“Hey,” Stiles said, his cheeks going warm again. “I’m sorry for, uh, what I said.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek said. “You want some coffee?”

Stiles scratched a hand through his hair, feeling awkward. “I don’t want to impose on you, man. If you can give me a ride back to my car, I’ll just wait out the storm there.”

Derek frowned at him. “You want to sit in your car until tomorrow morning for a tow?”

“I don’t want to get in your way,” Stiles protested. “I’m sure entertaining a guest wasn’t in your evening plans.”

Derek snorted. “I didn’t have any plans. Grab a cup of coffee and make yourself comfortable.”

Stiles hesitated and then said, “Fine, but I do so under protest.”

“Noted,” Derek said dryly.

Considering the way the day had begun, it was undeniably comforting to be able to sink deep into Derek’s surprisingly comfortable couch, sipping at a hot cup of coffee as the rain lashed at the windows. It grew darker and darker out at the storm rolled in, until the center of the storm seemed to be on top of them, the little cabin shaking under the power of the thunder, lightning flashes turning the trees outside the windows into stark black and white silhouettes. 

“Been a while since we’ve had a storm this bad,” Derek said, having settled down at the other end of the couch, his head turned to the window. Stiles tried not to stare too hard at his profile, the strong line of his nose and jaw. He tried not to imagine what Derek’s skin would taste like under his tongue. Derek turned to look at him, and if he thought it was weird that Stiles was staring at him, he didn’t mention it. Instead he said, “You said you were in Bend for a job interview? Where’s home?”

“Beacon Hills,” Stiles said, and when Derek didn’t seem to recognize the name, he further supplied, “It’s just south of Crescent City. I was trying to cut across to 101 from here. Is this still Oregon? I lost signal on my GPS like an hour before my car broke down.”

“You took a wrong turn somewhere,” Derek said, looking a little amused. “We’re about fifty minutes west of Etna.”

“What?” Stiles yelped. “Jesus, how did I fuck that up so badly?”

Derek laughed, which was an amazing noise. “These mountain roads can be confusing if you didn’t grow up around here. My father was on a volunteer search and rescue team, and he was always having to go out and people who tried driving on the logging roads and got stuck.”

Stiles shuddered. “Well, I drive an antiquated Jeep, so I think I could handle the logging roads all right, but my sense of direction is clearly nonexistent.”

“Well, you made it here in one piece,” Derek said, rising to pour himself another cup of coffee. “That’s something.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, swallowing hard, looking down at the mug in his hands. It’s weird and kind of alarming how quickly he swung around from being scared of Derek to _wanting_ him. He doesn’t always get along with people that well - he’s got what his dad always called a “combative personality” - and Derek had said he doesn’t like people all that much, so it felt kind of strange how… _easy_ it was to talk to him. How _right._ He wanted, selfishly, to know if Derek felt it too. 

If he did, Derek made no indication of it as he sat back down on the couch - still a respectable distance away. “You better hope a tree doesn’t fall on your car,” he said.

Stiles grimaced. “Why would you say that, man? What if a tree falls on this cabin? How do you like that?”

Derek gave him a faint grin. “We’ll be fine,” he said. “As long as the - ” As massive crack of thunder interrupted him, followed almost immediately by a flash of lightning so close it burned itself itself into Stiles’ retinas so he saw a ghostly mirror of it when he blinked. Barely a second later, all the lights in the cabin shut off, just as Derek dryly finished “ - power stays on.”

Stiles had to laugh. “You jinxed yourself, man.”

“I didn’t even finish what I was saying!” Derek growled. In the dim light still coming through the window, Stiles saw him stand. “I need to check and make sure that strike didn’t hit anything. Are you fine with staying here?”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles said, twisting to watch Derek’s dark form head for the door. 

“All right,” Derek said, and Stiles could hear him pulling on his coat. “I’ll be back soon.” 

The door opened, letting in a rush of sound - falling rain and rumbling thunder and rustling leaves - which cut off abruptly as Derek left, closing the door behind him. It seemed very quiet all of a sudden; nothing moved inside the cabin, no electronics or appliances ran. Stiles could hear himself breathing, his heart beating steadily in his chest. He got up, walked over to the window and peered out at the dark trees, but he couldn’t see anything except falling rain. 

Stiles heaved a sigh, running a hand through his hair. He knew he was being stupid, to get so worked up about a guy he’d known a couple hours at most and, after tomorrow, would probably never see again. He didn’t understand this weird connection building between them, and he wanted to explore it. He wanted Derek, and he wanted Derek to want him. 

The door swung back open and Derek stamped inside but he didn’t take off his coat. 

“All good?” Stiles asked.

Derek shook his head, sending water flying everywhere. “No,” he said. “It hit the oak.”

“The oak?” Stiles repeated blankly. 

“The oak,” Derek said again. “The one the inn’s named after. Split it right in half.”

“Ohh,” Stiles said, suddenly getting it. He blinked. “Does that mean you’ll have to change the name?”

It was too dark to tell for sure, but Derek stared at him for a long moment before barking out a laugh. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll let my sister deal with that. Anyway,” he added, plucking what sounded like keys off the wall. “Come on.”

“Where?” Stiles asked curiously. 

“To the inn. It’ll be warmer in there.”

“I thought you said it was closed for the season,” Stiles said accusingly, slipping his wet sneakers back on and grimacing at the feeling of them.

“Not if you have the keys,” Derek said pointedly, and Stiles laughed.

It was a mad dash across the yard to the back entrance, lightning still flashing overhead. There was no power in the inn, either, but Derek led Stiles down the dark hallways with the easy assurance of long acquaintance with the building. Stiles found it a little spooky; all the rooms they passed were empty and silent, the furniture covered in pale sheets.

“Is this place old?” he asked curiously.

“My great-grandparents build it in the twenties,” Derek replied, as they stepped out into what seemed to be the lobby - the dark bulk to the left was probably the check-in desk, but the room opened up to their right, a big fireplace dominating the far wall. “There used to be a spring nearby that was said to have healing properties.”

“Did it?” Stiles asked curiously, following Derek as he wove his way through the covered furniture. 

He could see Derek shrug. “Maybe,” Derek said. “I don’t know. It dried up sometime in the forties, but people still came up here anyway.” He bent by the fireplace, gathering kindling from a log carrier off to one side. “We open for the summer, offer guided fishing. In the fall, we get a lot of hunters. Winter and spring we close, my sisters go back to LA.”

“Seems like a lot of work for half the year,” Stiles said, watching Derek build a little pyramid of kindling around a couple pieces of balled up newspaper. He produced a lighter from somewhere and set a newspaper corner ablaze; within moments, a jaunty little fire began to consume the kindling. 

“It’s what my parents would have wanted,” Derek said. Stiles heard the sadness in that simple sentence and didn’t push any further; he knew that misery only too well. 

Once the fire was burning merrily, Derek rose and pulled the sheet off a long couch, and he and Stiles pushed it up close to the fire. Then he nodded at the couch and said, “Make yourself comfortable,” and disappeared off into the darkness of the hotel. Stiles did, looking around cautiously, half expecting to see some ghostly figure loom up at him. Nothing did, though he did jump when Derek suddenly reappeared and dumped a whole bunch of blankets over the back of the couch on top of him. “One more trip,” Derek promised him, and disappeared again.

Stiles contented himself with arranging the blankets over himself, kicking off his shoes so he could draw his knees up to his chest. He didn’t jump when Derek reappeared a second time, carrying a six-pack of beer and - 

“Hot dogs?” Stiles said, grinning. Derek gave him a lopsided smile and procured a couple of roasting forks from behind the pile of firewood. 

“Thought you might be hungry by now,” he said, handing one to Stiles.

“This is the best service I’ve ever had,” Stiles told him cheerfully. “I’m rating this place five stars on TripAdvisor.”

Derek snorted, cracking open a beer and passing it to Stiles before opening one for himself. “Cheers,” he said quietly.

“Cheers,” Stiles agreed, tapping his bottle to Derek’s. “To not being axe-murdered.”

Derek snorted softly, his eyes lingering on Stiles’ face for just a touch longer than necessary. Stiles hastily busied himself with roasting a hot dog, willing to blame the heat on his face from the fire. “So this job in Bend,” Derek said evenly. “What was it?”

“Oh,” Stiles sighed. “It was at this tech company. My master’s advisor set the interview up for me.”

“You’re in school?” Derek asked curiously.

“Not anymore,” Stiles said, wiggling his fingers in a _tada!_ gesture. “Graduated two weeks ago. Now I’m unemployed with two degrees to pay off.”

Derek winced in sympathy. “You get the job?”

“I don’t know yet,” Stiles said. “I don’t want it, though.”

Derek tilted his head. “Why not?”

“Too far from home,” Stiles replied. “I only went because I felt obligated to my advisor.”

Derek still has his head tilted, considering Stiles. “Home’s important?”

“Family is,” Stiles said, looking at his hot dog. “My dad’s all I got.”

“I get that,” Derek said quietly, and Stiles knew he did. 

They ate in silence. After they finished, Derek cracked open another beer and sank back into the couch, his eyes distant, gazing absently into the fire. Stiles watched him unabashed, emboldened by the beer. “Thanks,” he said abruptly, and Derek’s eyes flickered to him. “For helping me out.”

Derek shrugged. “I’d do it for anyone.”

Stiles watched him for a long moment before he said, “No, you wouldn’t.”

Derek looked at him again and then away. “I wouldn’t,” he agreed.

“So why me, then?” Stiles asked, idly picking loose threads off the blanket covering his lap. 

“I don’t know,” Derek said after a pause. “You flirted with me.”

“Come on,” Stiles said. “You’ve seen yourself in a mirror. People must flirt with you all the time.”

“Most of them don’t look like they want to throw themselves off a cliff afterward,” Derek said. 

“And what?” Stiles pressed, grinning faintly. “That does it for you?”

Derek sighed. “I don’t know,” he repeated. “You’re - different.”

Stiles pushed the blanket away and stood slowly, noting with pleasure the way Derek’s eyes tracked his movements. He stretched leisurely and then stepped back over to the couch, to Derek’s end, and slowly dropped down on top of him, straddling his thighs. Derek didn’t seem averse to this; indeed, he slid his hands up Stiles’ thighs, touched his hips, his hands stopping just under the edge of Stiles’ shirt, so Stiles could feel the hot press of his fingertips. 

“You don’t like people,” he said to Derek, “but you’re lonely.” He knew something of that himself; his social circle was wide and varied, but the number of people he considered friends was few, and the people he trusted even fewer. 

Derek didn’t reply; he closed his eyes and tilted his head back with a sigh when Stiles touched his face, sweeping his thumbs over Derek’s sharp cheekbones, trailing his fingers over his thin lips and strong jaw. He sighed again when Stiles leaned in to follow the path of his fingers with his mouth, fingers flexing against Stiles’ hips, not impatient, and when Stiles sat back Derek opened his eyes and followed him, pulling him back in for a slow kiss. 

There was something soft and intimate in the way that he moved, something Stiles had never felt before. He’d had plenty of one-night stands before, rushed and frantic, racing to get off, but this didn’t feel anything like those half-remembered nights. With the fire crackling merrily at his back, and the rain lashing against the windows, thunder still rattling the panes every now and then, they might be the only two people left in the whole world, and all the time they wished for was theirs.

Derek’s hands slid up his back as their kiss deepened, pulling him tight, tight, holding him steady and sure. Stiles leaned his elbows on Derek’s wide shoulders, tangled his hands in his dark hair, groaned when Derek tilted his chin and bit at his jaw, the blunt press of his teeth sending waves of pleasure-pain lapping through his body. He wanted to stay here forever, indulge for eternity in this strange, gentle man, so different from the unfriendly lumberjack who’d glowered at him from the lawn just a few hours ago. 

Derek let him go this time when he sat back, his pale eyes glittering with the reflected light from the fire as he watched Stiles unbutton his shirt, fingers moving deftly. He helped Stiles push it off his shoulders, considerately draping it over the arm of the couch before lifting his hands and touching Stiles the way Stiles had just touched him, fingers trailing over the dips and hollows of his collarbones, following the trail of moles that dotted his chest. Every brush of Derek’s fingertips felt like lightning flashing over Stiles’ skin, setting him ablaze with need and want.

Still, they move slowly, almost torturously so - in the best way possible. Stiles leaned back in and set to work sucking a bruise into Derek’s collarbone while Derek touched him all over, hands moving from his ribs to his shoulders, sliding down his spine. He pressed his palm over the front of Stiles’ pants and Stiles made a muffled noise into his throat, hips bucking up under his touch.

“You want to - ” Derek breathed.

_“Please,”_ Stiles groaned, his hands going for Derek’s fly. 

Derek exhaled harshly, catching his wrists. “I don’t have anything,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“That’s okay,” Stiles said, grinning encouragingly. “There’s plenty we can do without.”

Derek’s eyes darkened and he nodded, letting go of Stiles, lifting his hips when Stiles urged him to so he could work Derek’s pants and underwear down his thighs. Stiles swallowed a hungry noise at the sight of Derek’s dick - he’d ride the fuck out of it if they had the materials, but for now he was content to go slithering backward onto the floor, kneeling between Derek’s legs. 

“Oh,” Derek said, slow to realize what Stiles was about to do. “You don’t - ” He cut himself off with a strangled noise when Stiles got his mouth on him, one of his hands landing on the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles took his time with it, enjoying himself, enjoying the effect he had on Derek. He put his head down slow, took Derek in deep, pulled off him even more slowly. When he needed a second to breathe, he licked his way up Derek’s shaft, made eye contact and dragged his tongue across the head. Derek, panting by then, shuddered and tugged at Stiles’ arm, pulling him up off the floor. 

“What?” Stiles asked, smiling a little, letting himself be pulled back into Derek’s lap. “You don’t wanna blow in my mouth?”

All of the air rushed out of Derek harshly, his pupils reduced to pinpricks in a sea of foggy green, but he still moved delicately when he unbuttoned Stiles’ pants, pushing them down past his hips. “I want to help,” he said, curling his hand around Stiles’ dick. Stiles groaned, his back arching as he pushed up into Derek’s fist. 

“No, wait!” he protested, and Derek froze, his fingers uncurling. “No,” Stiles repeated gently, sinking back down against him, taking his hand and guiding it to wrap around both their dicks, their fingers tangled together. “Together,” Stiles breathed, hissing when he hitched his hips up, goosebumps breaking out over his skin at the delicious friction. 

Derek’s other hand came up to grab the back of his head and haul him in for a sloppy kiss, both of them breathing hard as they worked to get each other off. It wasn’t long before Derek broke the kiss with a moan, his head falling back against the couch as he came, spine bowing. His release just made things easier, slippery, and Stiles groaned, bracing his free hand against Derek’s chest as he fucked up hard into their grip, chasing his orgasm. It found him first, hitting him without warning, and he bent in half, forehead pressed to Derek’s collarbone as waves of pleasure rocketed through his body. 

Even after the feeling faded, Stiles didn’t move; he sat still, listening to Derek’s heartbeat go from thunderous to steady, waiting for his own breathing to even out. Derek gently rubbed his back with the hand that wasn’t covered in their combined release, prompting Stiles to lift his head and kiss his cheek, nuzzling against his jaw. He liked the look he saw on Derek’s face, his eyes half-closed and content, the faintest of smiles curling his mouth.

Later, after Derek had disappeared to find a couple bottles of water and shown him to the bathroom so they could clean up a little, and after a couple more beers and a lazy make-out session, Stiles lay on the couch with Derek half on top of him, asleep, his head tucked under Stiles’ chin. As the fire burned down to glowing embers, Stiles stared blankly up at the ceiling, troubled and unable to sleep.

He’d never fallen so hard and fast for anyone before, and beyond not even knowing if Derek felt the same, or if he did, if he’d want to make the effort to try and make a relationship out of this. Stiles was still a long way from home, and they hadn’t even known each other a full day; Stiles knew it was crazy to want make it work, and it would be even crazier if it _did_. He couldn’t help it, though; his heart knew what it wanted, and no one ever said that’d be rational.

-

The power was back on when they rose the next morning, but it wasn’t the same. Derek made them a hearty breakfast and called the tow truck for Stiles, but he was closed off and thin-lipped, a grim cloud hanging over his shoulders. Stiles wasn’t sure what had gone wrong; did he regret the night before? Was he angry Stiles was leaving? Stiles couldn’t work up the courage to ask; he kept his head and eyes down, misery gathering in his chest, food turning to ash in his mouth. 

After they ate, Stiles gathered his bag and walked with Derek out to his truck. Derek took his bag and put it in the back of the truck, and while Stiles climbed into the front, Derek stalked off behind the cabin without a word, reappearing with a chainsaw, which also went into the back. Stiles didn’t dare ask what that was for either, but it became obvious when they went bumping down the driveway and came across several fallen trees. They were able to move most of them on their own; Derek only had to break out the chainsaw for one of them. They still didn’t talk, though; Derek seemed to be growing grimmer and grimmer, his heavy brows furrowing down into an angry v between his eyes. Stiles swallowed and turned his head to look out the window, anxiety making his palms itch with sweat.

The tow truck arrived at Stiles’ Jeep right when they did, and there came a long, awkward moment where they both sat there in silence, watching the driver hook the Jeep up to the truck. 

“Are you mad about last night?” Stiles finally asked, unable to stand it any longer. 

Derek’s jaw clenched down tight before he ground out, “No.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No,” Derek repeated, even more tightly.

Stiles chewed at his bottom lip for a moment. “Are you mad at yourself?” Derek didn’t reply, and that gave Stiles his answer. He drew in a deep breath and said, “Can I come back here?”

That threw Derek; he gave Stiles a confused look. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want this to be the last time I see you,” Stiles said plainly. 

Derek stared at him for a long moment before jerking his head away, glaring out the window. “I don’t like playing around,” he said stiffly. 

“Me either,” Stiles said earnestly. “Honestly. Look - I don’t have a job. Maybe I could come back and stay for a couple days? I mean, your rooms are probably out of my price range, but I’ll sleep on the porch - wherever. Maybe I could find a local job for the summer.” He felt crazy, _knew_ he was crazy to be this desperate, but there was something about Derek he just couldn’t let go of. 

Derek turned slowly, his pale eyes betraying nothing, his expression pensive. After a long moment of torturous silence, he offered, “My sister mentioned wanting help at the front desk.”

It took Stiles a second to parse through this, but when he did, the corners of his mouth lifted without his say-so, curving into a hopeful smile. “Seriously?”

Derek nodded, his expression reserved. “You’d have to interview with her,” he said, “but I could probably put in a good word.”

“Could you?” Stiles breathed, leaning toward him. “I could give you an incentive - you know I’m good with my mouth.”

Derek snorted. The anger had left his face, replaced by a hopeful expression of his own. “We can try it,” he said.

“You won’t regret it,” Stiles said, eyes darting toward the tow truck, where the driver was growing impatient, waving at them pointedly. 

“I don’t think I will,” Derek said quietly, holding his gaze for a long moment. 

Stiles grinned at him, pushing open his door and hopping out onto the ground. Derek got out as well and reached into the back of the truck, lifting out Stiles’ duffle bag for him, and then catching Stiles in a surprising embrace. Stiles clutched at the back of his shirt, mumbling into his shoulder, “I’ll call you.”

“You better,” Derek murmured. “Laura’s a tough interviewer. I’ll give you some tips.”

“I’d love a few tips from you,” Stiles said wickedly, and when they pulled apart, he was gratified to see Derek was blushing, though he said valiantly, “I’ll be ready next time.”

Stiles grinned. “I’m looking forward to it.” And, as the tow truck driver honked his horn impatiently, Stiles grabbed Derek’s hand and squeezed it tight. “And hey - thanks.”

“Any time,” Derek said softly. And the best part, Stiles thought, watching Derek grow small in the side mirror as he sat in the cab of the tow truck, was Derek meant it.


	82. Chapter 82

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** sterek arranged marriage - the day they fall in love.
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, royalty au, arranged marriage au, medieval au, enemies to lovers

Derek grows up knowing that he won’t be able to choose the person he marries, and for the most part, he’s fine with this. Laura’s the heir apparent, so Derek’s marriage will be to someone of less significance to the kingdom, some lesser noble or the child of a minor ally. For most of his childhood and teenage years, it’s common knowledge that this person is likely to be the youngest princess of a nearby kingdom that’s one of their oldest allies. 

Derek’s content with this; if he has no choice, Paige is far from the worst. Their families grow up close, and she’s more like a sister to him than anything, which he thinks is a good thing; even if they don’t end up in love, they have a close relationship that will serve their kingdoms well.

Then comes the accident. Derek goes to bed a prince and wakes a king without a family. Suddenly, the kingdom is fragile and the need for strong allies is great. Marrying Paige is no longer an option; her kingdom is small, already a friend. The advisors tell Derek that he needs to marry into a powerful family, or a kingdom of great economic strength. They give him options, which is more than he expects, but there’s no time for courtship, no time to get to know any of them on even a cursory level. Derek does what’s best for his kingdom, picks the dignitary his advisors point him to, the crown prince of a kingdom on the other end of the continent. Their marriage will forge lasting trade routes between their kingdoms, a gateway to the sea and the kingdoms beyond, and the crown prince’s status as an omega means they’ll soon be able to produce heirs, which is essential to securing the peace in both their kingdoms. 

They are to be married upon the crown prince’s arrival in the kingdom, though the journey takes him the better part of two weeks. Derek is waiting outside the day he arrives, along with most of the castle staff and several noble families. His palms itch with sweat as the carriage pulls up in front of him, his stomach tense with nerves and anticipation. He knows next to nothing about the crown prince, except that he’s said to have a sparkling wit; Derek doesn’t even know what he looks like. His mouth goes dry when a manservant opens the carriage door and the prince unfolds himself from inside, stepping down onto the smooth stones. He’s tall and lean, with long, coltish legs, elegant hands, a proud set to his shoulders. His eyes meet Derek’s and Derek’s dismayed to see nothing but anger and disdain in them, his mouth set in a grim, fixed line. 

“Crown Prince Stilinski,” Derek says, struggling to keep his tone light and welcoming over the dismay gathering in his chest. “Welcome.”

“It’s my honor, my king,” the crown prince says icily, and Derek can tell that nothing could be further from the truth. 

There are festivities planned as a lead-up to the wedding, which is set to take place three days after the prince - _Stiles,_ he snaps coldly when Derek tries to address him by his given name - arrives in the kingdom. They attend these festivities together, and in public Stiles is bright and vivacious, charming courtiers and commoners alike, but in private he is silent and unfriendly - he barely makes eye contact, hardly even acknowledges that they’re in the same room. 

Derek doesn’t know what to do; he knows it was unrealistic to expect the prince to be his soul mate, but he’d hoped that, at the very least, they could be cordial to each other. Instead, he finds himself counting down the hours before he can flee to his rooms at night, escape from Stiles’ cutting remarks and infrequent, cold glances. Maybe it was stupid to believe that just because he’d resigned himself to an arranged marriage, Stiles would too. Maybe he’d secretly been hoping for a marriage like his parents’ - they too had had no choice, but they turned out to love each other very much, and he couldn’t help but hope for the same.

Such optimism quickly leaves him; by the time they are married, Derek knows just as much about Stiles as he did on the day he arrived because they haven’t had a single conversation, all of Derek’s attempts to speak to him rebuffed by stony silence. During the ceremony, Stiles touches him precisely as much as necessary and nothing more, offering his cheek for exactly one chaste kiss as they stand on a balcony before their people, and then jerking away from Derek as soon as they go inside. 

A long evening of celebration follows, but Derek remembers none of it. His eyes follow Stiles the entire time, watching him laugh with the nobility, but Stiles never looks at him once. Much later, they walk to Derek’s rooms together in complete silence. Derek is nervous again; he knows what is expected of them now, but it’s not going to happen. Maybe it never will. Once they’re alone, their guards stationed at the doors outside, Stiles turns for the bedroom with his shoulders set and angry, but Derek catches him by the arm before he can go more than a few paces. Stiles meets his eyes, his expression furious. 

“Whatever I’ve done to make you hate me so,” Derek says quietly. “I hope someday you will forgive me for it.”

“What you’ve done?” Stiles spits. “What you’ve done is torn me from the only home and family I have!”

“You agreed to this,” Derek says, hurt. 

“My father agreed to this,” Stiles snaps, jerking his arm out of Derek’s grip. “And I’ll never forgive either of you.” With that, he storms into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Derek sleeps on one of the couches in the outer room that night, his eyes clenched shut against the way they burn and blur.

In the months that follow, their relationship does not improve. Stiles treats Derek with a triumphant sort of viciousness that never mellows, as Derek had hoped it might in the beginning. It wears at him, as does the way Stiles rebuffs him at every turn, and yet Derek still admires him, still hopes for the best, as the Stiles he sees interact with the public is gracious and kind, his judgements sound. Derek dreams of the day he’s the recipient of one of Stiles’ bright, rare smiles, of the day he can make him laugh. He doesn’t know if there’s any hope of this - it certainly seems unlikely, and the question of an heir is likely to go unanswered, as they’ve never even kissed, let alone consummated their marriage, and Derek could certainly never force him to. When Stiles goes into heat, Derek sleeps on the couch; otherwise, they sleep in the same bed, but never touch. Derek never expected marriage to feel so lonely.

He’s almost relieved when word comes that Stiles’ father is sick, and Stiles returns to his homeland to run the kingdom while his father recovers. Part of Derek expects Stiles never to return, and he’s not sure whether he would be relieved or even more unhappy than he is now. Still, he keeps Stiles updated on the business of their kingdom, sending him letters every few days. The first couple of letters go unanswered, which Derek doesn’t find unexpected; what he _does_ find unexpected is rising one morning for breakfast to find a sealed envelope sitting at his place at the table. Inside is a letter from Stiles, curt and to the point, sending news of his father’s health and the affairs of his kingdom. There’s nothing personal about it - it could be a letter for anyone, really - but Derek is somehow heartened; Stiles has never acknowledged him, but this is… _something_.

As a month slips by, more letters pass between them, and while Stiles’ are stiff to begin with, his language begins to loosen with each letter exchanged. Derek doesn’t want to think too much of it, but he can’t deny that he begins to look forward to waking, hoping each morning that there will be a letter beside his plate. 

In one, Stiles mentions that his father’s health is beginning to improve, and that he should be returning to the kingdom in the near future, and when Derek writes back, he says, _Your return is anticipated by many. The common folk do not love me like they love you._

Stiles’ next letter is short, a few hastily written words. _The common folk may love me, but you do not._

Derek sits on the letter for a few days. He reads it over and over, his heart aching with every scan of that one short line. He drafts four long letters and crumples each of them before he writes a fifth, just as short as the one Stiles sent him. It says: _I would love you if you would let me._

He never receives a reply. Two weeks after he sends the letter, he receives word that Stiles is returning to the kingdom, but the message comes from Stiles’ valet, not from Stiles himself, and the all too familiar misery wells up in his chest. He’s done wrong again, exposed his truest self to Stiles and been found unworthy. 

When Stiles returns to the kingdom, Derek doesn’t want to stand outside to greet him but he must, for appearance’s sake. He is a good king, he’s fairly sure, but it’s true what he said; his people don’t love him like they love Stiles. They cheer when Stiles emerges from his carriage and Derek’s chest tightens at the way he smiles at them - the way he’ll never smile at Derek. When Stiles turns to look at him, though, there’s something unfamiliar in his gaze, and Derek can’t figure out what it is. 

“Welcome back,” he says stiffly, when Stiles steps in close to him. 

“It’s good to be back, my king,” Stiles replies, and Derek’s startled to hear he actually sounds like he means it. He puts his hand on Derek’s arm as they walk into the castle, and it’s not until they’re halfway through the evening meal that Derek finally deciphers what he saw in Stiles’ eyes earlier - or rather, what he _didn’t_ see: anger.

In the days and weeks that follow Stiles’ return to the kingdom, things are different. _Stiles_ is different. When they’re around each other, Stiles is less closed off, less hostile. He actually appears to be interested and listening when Derek says something. It makes hope bloom inside of Derek, but he’s cautious at the same time, wary that it’s some kind of trick. He’s not entirely willing to open himself up, not after he tried so hard those first few months only to be rejected at every turn. 

Unless there’s some kind of banquet, they don’t generally spend their evenings together. Derek usually whiles the hours before bed away working in his study, or reading in one of the small, cozy rooms off the library. He’s not sure what Stiles does with his time in the evenings, and never asked - partially because Stiles wouldn’t have answered anyway, and partially because he didn’t want to know. In an arranged marriage such as theirs, it’s not really expected that they remain faithful to each other, as long as they’re discreet about it, but the jealous alpha part of Derek doesn’t want to share him, so he never asked - better to just not know.

One evening a couple weeks after Stiles’ return to the kingdom, however, as they rise from dinner, Derek turns to head to his study and Stiles stops him with a hand on his arm. That startles Derek more than anything; Stiles _never_ touches him if he doesn’t have to. “Would you walk with me in the garden?” Stiles asks, and that’s just as startling. 

Some bitter part of Derek is tempted to refuse, or ignore him entirely - see how _he_ feels - but he doesn’t. He’s curious to know what’s brought this on, and a little nervous, but he walks with Stiles out of the castle, follows him down the stone paths that wind through the flowerbeds. They don’t speak until Stiles pauses by a stone railing at the edge of the garden, turning his head to look at the city sprawling beyond the castle. Derek watches him, his pale skin bathed golden in the setting light of the sun, and thinks that even if they don’t love each other, at least they’ve kept the kingdom at peace.

Stiles looks at him then, an ashamed look on his face. “I have been a poor husband,” he says without preamble. “And a worse human being.”

Derek exhales harshly, looking away from him. “I do not expect you to love me,” he says, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. 

“Perhaps not,” Stiles replies. “But you do not deserve the way I’ve treated you. You welcomed me into your life and home, and I gave you nothing but scorn.”

Derek swallows hard. “What brought this revelation?”

“I told you I would not forgive you or my father,” Stiles says quietly. “When I went home, I thought my father was dying, and found it easier to forgive him than I realized it would be. If I could forgive him I could forgive you, and so to you I say…I’m sorry.”

Derek glares out at the setting sun, not yet willing to forgive him. “Why did you come back? You could have stayed - I would not have forced you to return.”

Stiles is silent for a long moment before he says, “Your letters.” Derek looks at him sharply and Stiles hesitates before explains, “They made me realize I missed this place, our people. And - ” He hesitates again, looking uncertain. “The very fact that you would even trouble yourself to correspond with me after the way that I’ve treated you, I - I do not deserve the patience you’ve shown me. I was angry when I came here, as you well know, so angry that I made no attempt to know you, but your letters made me realize…I deeply misunderstood you. I - ” He stops, plucking a folded sheet of paper from the inside of his jacket. Derek recognizes his own handwriting. Stiles’ voice shakes a little when he continues, “I cannot fool myself into believing that I am worthy of your love, or even your forgiveness, but I am sorry - _truly.”_

Derek’s silent, pensive. He watches Stiles sink down to sit on the stone railing, his long fingers fiddling with Derek’s letter. He can see the single line of copy on it, remembers well the message: _I would love you if you would let me._ It may still be true, though Derek isn’t entirely certain at the moment. What he does know is that this is the first conversation they’ve ever had, and this is the most human he’s ever seen Stiles; his face is creased with weariness, his body limp and defeated. 

“We have been married half a year and yet you are still a stranger to me,” Derek tells him. Stiles looks up at him quickly and then away, ashamed. Derek pauses before continuing, breathing in deeply before saying, “I wish to know you. Do you wish the same?”

Stiles looks at him again, a faint strain of hope bleeding into his expression. “Yes,” he says faintly. “I do.”

Derek closes his eyes briefly, gathering his thoughts, before he looks at Stiles and says, “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Stiles offers him a smile then, small and unsure, but to Derek, who never thought he’d see that smile directed at him, it means the world.

The next six months of their marriage are the complete opposite of the first six. Stiles seems determined to make up for his abysmal attitude and fairly lavishes Derek with attention, which he can’t help but respond to, like a plant starved for light. The first few weeks are awkward, their conversations stilted and careful as they get to know each other, each eager not to offend. And though Derek desperately wants to know Stiles, it still takes him time to feel safe opening himself to him, slow to forgive his previous behavior, though with Stiles so clearly eager to right his wrongs, it doesn’t take as long as it might have.

Stiles is sharp as a tack - it’s not long before Derek’s exposed to the sparkling wit he heard rumors of before their marriage - and he has strong ideas about how to run the kingdom - ideas Derek doesn’t always agree with, and they argue constantly, comfortably, like old friends. Suddenly, he’s never alone; Stiles is always by his side, and Derek never realized just how much he craved companionship until it’s there with him. Even in the evenings, they might take quiet walks in the garden, or read in silence, but Stiles still sticks close. He seems just as eager for companionship as Derek does, and it makes him wonder just how Stiles felt those first few months of their marriage - did he feel as lonely as Derek had?

The way Stiles touches him changes; Derek notices it first in public, where Stiles always touched him in a perfunctory, automatic sort of way, as if by rote. Now, there’s life in the way his hand grasps Derek’s, his fingers lingering when he takes Derek’s arm, leaning into him with all of his weight. It’s so unexpected that Derek’s not sure how to react to it, especially when Stiles begins touching him in private too - chaste, to be sure: brushing their elbows or knees together, tapping eagerly at his arm when he wants to show Derek something. Derek doesn’t know how to interpret it; does this mean Stiles has interest in him, or is he just seeing the true Stiles that was hidden to him for so many months?

Derek decides to test the waters, as it were. He aches for Stiles, longs to caress and care for him. Sharing a bed has become harder now that the distance between them has lessened, blurring the clarity of their relationship. In some ways, it was easier before; he knew his advances weren’t wanted, so he never tried, but now he’s not sure how he would be received. He will never force Stiles to do anything against his will, even if it means he dies with no heir, but he wishes, dreams that Stiles will want to bed him someday. 

Derek goes slow, cautious, ready to pull back at the slightest sign he’s not wanted, but one evening they’re sitting in the garden in the fading light of the sun; Derek is entranced by the way the setting sun turns Stiles’ eyes to liquid gold, and he can’t resist any longer. He reaches out hesitantly and puts his hand over Stiles, which is nothing that they haven’t done in public, but when it’s just the two of them it feels like so much more than an innocent gesture. 

Stiles notices - how could he not - and turns to look at Derek, who holds his breath. He looks down at their hands and he doesn’t say a word, but he turns his hand over and threads their fingers together. A thrill like Derek’s never felt before runs through him, filling him with joy. Stiles looks back out over the garden, but the corner of his mouth curves up with pleasure.

Derek’s delighted. All he ever hoped for was for them to be friends, his expectations low for two strangers being brought together for a marriage of necessity, but now it seems to him that his secret dream of being able to love Stiles is within reach. They both press at the boundaries of their relationship, testing it, growing it. They begin gravitating toward each other in their sleep; where once an invisible line ran down the center of their bed that neither ever crossed, now they wake curled against each other, legs entangled, bodies fitting seamlessly together. 

Stiles kisses him first, in a mad rush of movement one morning as they’re leaving their rooms to go to breakfast. Derek’s so startled he jerks backward without meaning to, and Stiles’ face goes red with mortification. “I’m sorry,” he says, backing away. “I’m - ”

Derek grabs him by his collar and pulls him back in as he’s still apologizing, silencing him with a rough kiss. Stiles makes a noise of relief against his mouth and kisses him back fiercely, his hands rising up to clutch at Derek’s shoulders like he’s never going to let him go. Every part of Derek that’s been aching for him is soothed in that moment, and when they pull apart, they don’t go far. Stiles presses his forehead to Derek’s. “I have many regrets,” he whispers, curling his fingers against the back of Derek’s neck, “but my biggest is not opening myself to you sooner.”

“Don’t dwell on it,” Derek murmurs back. “We have all the time in the future to make up for it.”

Stiles kisses him again, slow and sweet, and when he pulls back he’s smiling, his amber eyes sparkling with life and good cheer. “I look forward to every moment,” he breathes. “My king.”


	83. Chapter 83

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** something with Stiles as a mermaid. Like maybe Derek is a mermaid hunter and Stiles ends up in his net.
> 
>  **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, fisherman!derek, mermaid!stiles

> _Cursed your captain and stow me below_  
>  _Hold me amongst all your cards_  
>  _Oh we were sea bound and aimless at best,  
>  _ _Clutching to the wheel and those charts,  
>  _ _but that sea was just a gambler at heart [_ [ _x_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dVrhFY4j0uc) _]_

_If you ever haul one in,_ his father told him once, long ago, _kill it. Slit the neck and arms but don’t damage the tail - it’s worth its weight in gold._

His father said a lot of things when he was alive, most of them in jest, but he was dead serious when he told Derek about the merfolk. He showed Derek a scale once, big as his thumbnail, shining an iridescent rainbow of colors in the sunlight, said he pulled it off a mermaid he’d hauled up with his grandfather. Laura never believed it - she said it was just a worn piece of seashell. Derek found it amongst his father’s things after he died, and he was sure it was no seashell; the thing was hard as metal, the curved edge sharp enough to cut his finger. It was the only thing of his father’s he’d kept beside the boat.

Derek loved the sea. Calm and volatile at turns, shifting green to grey to black to blue, he felt at home atop its waves, wasn’t frightened of its endless depths. He could stay out there for days, and often did, sleeping on the deck when the skies were clear and the stars shine brilliant and plentiful overhead.

There were plenty of stories about the things that lived down there; his father wasn’t the only fisherman with stories to tell. Merfolk, giant squid, sea monsters, phantom islands, ghostly ships - Derek took it all in good humor and a grain of salt. He knew the sea, knew its tricks. Maybe those things were out there, or maybe not, but sailors were a superstitious lot and he always erred on the side of caution, never whistled at sea, painted eyes on the prow of the boat to guide him, tattooed the north star on his chest to always bring him home.

Still, superstitious or not, Derek never expected to see anything. He’d seen seals once, miles and miles from shore, and he’d seen fog roll in so dense and fast it became dark as night at midday, and he’d seen freak waves swell from nothing to tower over his boat, but he never expected to haul his net over the side of the boat and have a merman spill across his deck, mixed in with a score of cod. 

For a long moment, all Derek could do was stare. The merman was caught in the net and flopping around violently, his shining copper tail slapping the deck with such strength it vibrated the wood under Derek’s feet. Derek had seen fish as big - bigger, even, some of the tuna at the market were - but he’d never thought it’d look so…human. Not that he’d given it much thought at all, really, but the creature flopping around in front of him had a perfectly human face, dark hair just as long as Derek’s, and a man’s torso, which merged seamlessly into an elegant tail, lighter red-gold in the front and darker, almost bronze, on the sides, with two sets of smaller fins near the hips.

All of this took Derek several long seconds to process before he moved, his hand automatically pulling his knife from the holder on his belt. The merman made a frantic hissing noise when Derek hauled at the ropes entangling it, hacking them apart with the knife when it became clear that was the easiest route. _Slit the throat,_ he thought uneasily, grabbing the merman by the hair and bending its head back. He tried not to look into its eyes, huge and wide and liquid gold, tried not to think about how human it looked. Focused on how human it _wasn’t,_ on the way gills on its ribs flared open with every ragged breath it took, on the mouthful of long, needle-like teeth.

It fought him, tearing at his arms with sharp nails that were more like claws. It was strong - with the dense muscle in its tail, it probably weighed twice as much as Derek did, and it used all of its weight to throw itself around. Derek swallowed, adjusting his grip on the knife, steeling himself; he needed the money it’d fetch, he told himself. He could fix the house, upgrade the boat. He needed this. 

“Ple - ” the merman rasped. Derek almost fell on his ass in surprise at the sound. The thing could _speak?_ “Ple-please. _Please.”_

Begging for its life, Derek realized, horror lancing through him. The merman stared up at him beseechingly with its doe-like eyes, its claws digging into Derek’s forearms. Derek stared back at it, and as he listened to it struggle to breathe, he swiftly came to the conclusion that he couldn’t do this, not matter how badly he needed the money. It was too human. 

“Okay,” he said shakily, shoving his knife back into its sheath. “Okay.”

The merman didn’t take its eyes off Derek’s face, its mouth open wide as it tried to pull in air, but it stopped struggling. Derek swallowed again and struggled back to his feet, looping his arms under the merman’s, lifting its - _his_ , Derek supposed - torso from the deck. It was much harder than he realized it’d be; the merman was _heavy_ , and Derek was sweating by the time he hauled him to the edge of the deck. The creature couldn’t do anything to help him, his long tail flopping uselessly against the deck, flashing gold in the sunlight, but when they reached the railing, he could reach out for the rail and proved how strong he really was by hauling himself right up over it with hardly a push from Derek. He hit the water with a splash that soaked Derek down his entire front, but he still leaned over the rail to watch the merman disappear into the murky depths beneath his boat. 

Derek felt oddly weak, his entire world shaken by this experience. He might think it was a dream, too many hours under the hot sun, if it weren’t for the long scratches up his forearms. He touched them tentatively, and they were hot under his fingertips, stinging from the salt water.

He was still standing there, gaze distant, when, to his surprise, the merman returned. Derek took a startled step backward when the merman’s head broke the water - why had he returned? Would he seek revenge? 

But all the merman did was float there, bobbing up and down with the waves, staring at Derek. Derek stared back, once again thrown by the intelligence he saw in those coffee-colored eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, certain the merman would understand. “For catching you. And frightening you.”

The merman watched him for a long moment, his brow furrowing. Then he nodded and sank beneath the waves and Derek let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. That was enough of the sea for today, he thought, and gave the place where the merman had been one last look before heading for the wheel and pointing the prow toward home. 

He didn’t tell Laura about the merman. When she exclaimed over the scratches on his arms, he told her he’d hauled up a load of barbed wire entangled in seaweed - which seemed about just as likely as hauling up a merman. Laura had heard enough about the strange things he’d pulled up in his net - a chest full of women’s clothing once, a bottle of mead sealed with a wax stamp dated a century ago, a pitchfork with the tines bent in every direction - that she just nodded at his explanation and cleaned the scratches with alcohol while Derek winced.

His arms hurt for a week after that, the muscles sore, skin tender. Every flex of his arms, every heave on a line made a dull ache flare up his forearms. Every time, he thought about the merman, about the silent way he’d watched Derek from the waves, about the terrified way he’d begged for his life. Derek found himself lifting his head more often, watched the sea rise and fall around him, half-expecting to find a pair of dark amber eyes staring back at him. He kept hearing things - or maybe he was imagining them: an out of place splash, a knock on the boat that’s not an errant wave. 

He was being paranoid, he was sure, until late one afternoon after he’d hauled in his last catch of the day, when he turned around to find a fist-sized conch shell sitting on the deck rail. Derek froze, his eyes flitting from the shell to the calm sea around him. After an agonizingly long moment where nothing happened, Derek unstuck himself, taking one heavy step forward so he could pick up the shell. There was nothing special about it, hefty in his hand, a fawn color on the outside, soft peachy-pink inside. 

Derek looked up again, unsettled. “Thank you,” he said to the sea, but it didn’t reply.

More small gifts appeared on the railing every couple of days; another shell, an aged silver coin, a shard of porcelain with its edges worn smooth by the waves, a woman’s face painted on its surface. Derek kept all of them. He wasn’t sure why. He put each little thing in a line on his dresser and sometimes at night he stopped in front of it, picked up one of the gifts, ran his fingers over it. He didn’t understand _why_ the merman was leaving him these things; if anything, the merman should hate him, fear him - shouldn’t he?

“You all right?” Laura asked at dinner one night. “You’ve been miles away for days.”

“Tired,” Derek said. He looked down at his arms, the scratches long healed and faded. Only one remained, a particularly vicious one that cut over the back of his left hand and down between his ring and middle hand. That one was still a livid red line, and though it had healed over, Derek had a feeling it was going to scar. He rubbed his thumb over it absently. “Do you remember the stories Dad used to tell us? About the sea?”

Laura frowned. “He had a lot of stories, Derek.”

Derek scrubbed his hands through his hair, sighing wearily. “I know,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m going to bed.”

He lay in bed for a long time after that, flipping the silver coin the merman had left him between his fingers. Sleep was a long time coming.

-

The next day, Derek left a gift of his own on the railing, a piece of salt water taffy he’d filched from one of Laura’s secret stashes. He didn’t know if the merman would like it, or if he could even eat it with all those needle-like teeth in his mouth. He didn’t know why he was leaving it at all, or why he couldn’t stop thinking about it, but he worked the day away steadily, eyes flickering to where the candy sat on the railing until it suddenly wasn’t. Derek stared at the empty space, wondering if the merman had come or if it’d just fallen overboard, and he kept wondering until he turned again and found the little red piece of wax paper the taffy had been wrapped in folded neatly on the railing. Derek grinned and he had no idea why. 

Two weeks later, after several more pieces of taffy and a stone carving of an owl he’d seen at the market and bought at a whim had mysteriously disappeared overboard, Derek left one more thing for the merman. It was the silver merfolk scale his father had treasured and Derek, now knowing that they really did exist, didn’t feel right keeping it. He wasn’t sure how the merman would take the offering - if he’d be offended, or if he’d be grateful. Derek didn’t want to offend him; he enjoyed the little thrill that rushed through him every time one of his gifts disappeared, or something was placed on the railing for him. 

The silver scale sat there all day, glinting opalescent in the sunlight, and it was still there when Derek began his journey home. He gave it an unhappy look; perhaps he’d been right to worry, he thought, or perhaps the merman simply hadn’t visited him that day. Derek couldn’t be sure he _did_ come every day; the gifts he left for Derek only came every few days, and perhaps it was only luck that the gifts Derek left for him disappeared on the same day they were set out.

Derek tried it again the next day - the last time, he told himself. It was still there at noon, reflecting the pure blue sky, and he turned his back on it to eat his lunch. He thought he heard a faint splash as he ate his sandwich but he closed his eyes, not letting himself rush. He finished his sandwich in due time, and only then did he turn around to find, to his surprise, that the scale was still there - but the merman was there as well, his elbows hooked over the edge of the railing to keep himself out of the water as he played idly with the scale. He looked at Derek as Derek turned, but he didn’t seem startled at all, his dark eyes watching Derek steadily. 

“Hi,” Derek said uncertainly. 

The merman didn’t reply, but he tilted his head to one side, apparently interested. Derek swallowed, feeling awkward. He wasn’t a conversationalist at the best of times, but especially not when faced with a supernatural creature he’d almost killed a month ago. 

“Thank you,” Derek said finally. “For the gifts. You found all of that stuff?”

The merman nodded slowly, his long fingers still idly fiddling with the scale.

“Did you like the taffy?” Derek asked. That actually got him a grin from the merman, who nodded again. “Good,” he said, with some relief. “Uh - ” He fished around in his pocket and pulled out an apple. “You want this?”

The merman’s eyes gleamed; he nodded eagerly and Derek found his own smile. He got carefully to his feet and stepped over to the railing, giving the merman time to flee if he felt intimidated, but the merman seemed to feel nothing of the sort; he reached for the apple, eyes bright with curiosity and delight. Derek was a little startled to see that there were no sign of the claws that had scored his arms; the merman’s fingers ended in blunt fingernails, and his teeth, too, were flat and human. Was he able to shift his appearance? 

Derek was even more startled when, instead of taking the apple, the merman caught his wrist. Derek’s breath caught in his throat, uncertain what the merman was about to do, but all the merman did was frown down at his hand, brushing his long fingers over the deep scratch across the back of his hand. He looked _worried_ , so worried that Derek felt compelled to say, “It’s not your fault. You thought I was going to kill you.”

The merman looked up at him, still worried. Derek swallowed hard and gently pulled his hand free so he could press the apple into the merman’s hands. “Here,” he said. “Take it.”

Some of the worry filtered off the merman’s face as he lifted the apple, examining it closely, rubbing his fingers against its shiny red skin. “It’s food,” Derek told him, in case it wasn’t clear. “Bite it.”

The merman shot him an irritated look - _I know that,_ it seemed to say - and bit into the apple with a satisfying crunch. Derek couldn’t help but laugh at the look on his face; he looked so _delighted._ Derek couldn’t remember the last time he saw anyone look so pleased at something so simple. The merman finished the apple with gusto, core and all. “Most people don’t eat the middle,” Derek told him. 

The merman licked every last trace of the apple from his fingers before shooting Derek a grin. “Tastes fine to me,” he said.

Derek raised his eyebrows. “You can talk.” Some part of him had begun to believe that the sounds the merman had made when he was begging for his life weren’t words at all, just vocalizations that happened to sound, by some extraordinary chance, like _please._

The merman grinned again, unbending his arms from the rail so he dropped back into the water. He didn’t disappear, though; his head and shoulders remained above the waves, his eyes still focused on Derek’s face. 

“Why do you visit me?” Derek asked him. “I was going to kill you.”

The merman didn’t answer for a long moment, bobbing up and down with the movement of the waves. Derek could see his powerful tail working back and forth underneath him, keeping him afloat. “You didn’t, though,” he said finally. “You’re different.”

“Different?” Derek repeated, confused. “From what?”

“The other humans,” the merman said. He lifted his arms from the water and for the first time, Derek noticed long scars running down his forearms. “You’re not the first.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek said automatically, but the merman just shrugged.

“Way of the sea,” he said. His head tilted, hearing something Derek couldn’t. “I have to go.”

“Wait,” Derek said. “What’s your name?”

The merman considered him for a long moment before he said, “Stiles.”

“I’m Derek,” Derek told him. 

“Derek,” Stiles echoed, a slow smile splitting his face. “I’ll see you soon.”


	84. Chapter 84

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Here’s a sappy little scene from the _[a mountain to climb](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4253088) _ verse. Takes place about seven months after the epilogue.**
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, mpreg, omega!Stiles, kidfic

Derek comes home from a work conference to find his husband and their daughter sound asleep on the couch, and he has to stop to watch them for a long moment, glad to be home. Stiles is in one of his impossible contortions, his neck cranked back in a way that's going to give him problems in a couple decades, his feet up on the coffee table, and Evie's got her head pillowed on his round stomach, curled in tight against him.

Derek smiles faintly, finally letting his eyes rove around the rest of the room. The television screen is stuck on the _Frozen_ dvd menu, there's glitter all over the dining room table, and the scattering of wrappers on the coffee table around Stiles' feet seems to indicate a binge night of epic proportions. Not as bad as he'd expected after four days away, though a faint sour note coming from the kitchen seems to point to a backlog of dishes he'll have to get on Stiles' case about.

Derek quietly sets down his bags, slipping off his shoes so he can pad silently around the coffee table and tuck his arms under Evie, lifting her effortlessly off the couch. He gets a little pang in his chest, remembering how she used to be small enough to tuck in the crook of his arm, though it's quickly soothed by the way she wakes with the motion, reflexively putting her arms around his neck before her eyes have even opened. "Papa," she mumbles. "You're back."

"Mhm," Derek rumbles, kissing the top of her head. "Did you and Daddy have fun while I was gone?"

"Yeah," Evie yawns. "We went to the park today."

"You know Daddy's not supposed to leave the house right now," Derek says as he carries her into her bedroom. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, because Stiles has taken to bedrest like a child takes to timeout - which is to say, petulantly, with a lot of temper tantrums.

"I know," Evie says. Derek sets her down and she looks up at him plaintively. "He said it was a secret, but I said it was a bad secret."

Derek snorts softly, rubbing his hand over her dark hair. "That's okay," he says gently. "It didn't hurt him." Evie seems to have been worried about this, because she relaxes a little. She's smart - she picks up on a lot more than they realize. "Why don't you get your pajamas on?"

Evie nods and skips over to her dresser, pulling out a pajama set covered in - what else - _Frozen_ characters - Stiles seems determined to bankrupt them one Disney Princess-related item at a time - while Derek pulls back the covers on her bed, pushing stuffed animals aside so there's room for Evie to squeeze in. 

"What are we reading tonight?" Derek asks, and she pushes a book into his hands. " _Madeline_ , hm? We almost named you Madeline, Evie."

She gives him a shocked look. "But then I wouldn't be me!"

"Good thing we went with Evelyn, then," Derek says solemnly, and Evie nods fervently. They read it together, Evie taking the lead and Derek helping her out when she stumbles, and her eyes are getting heavy by the end. 

"I want to say goodnight to Daddy," she protests wearily when Derek tucks her in. 

"I'll wake him up," Derek says gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "He'll be in in a few minutes." It won't matter; Evie will be asleep by then. It's enough of an effort for her to look up at him and mumble, "Good night, Papa."

"Night, Ev," he says softly, and shuts off her light. He leaves the door open a crack so that the light from the hall can spill inside, and heads back to the living room.

The house is very quiet now. Stiles is still asleep, though he's shifted sideways into Evie's vacated space, legs spread wide. Derek's chest tightens with love at the sight of him, his cheeks a little flushed, his stomach tight with their second child. When he settles on the couch next to him, he touches Stiles' stomach first, splaying out his fingers to feel the baby kick at his touch. Stiles shifts, mumbles something incoherent, and Derek reaches out, cupping his cheek in his hand, swiping his thumb back and forth over his cheekbone until Stiles' eyes flutter open.

It takes him a second to focus on Derek. "'Lo," he says when he does, his voice rough. "How was Sacramento?"

"Dull," Derek says quietly, not taking his hand from Stiles' face. "How was home?"

Stiles struggles upright with a groan. Derek doesn't try to help, having long ago learned that Stiles will ask for his help if he needs it, and will get cranky if he suspects he's being coddled. "Fine," Stiles eventually concedes.

Derek raises his eyebrows. "Just fine?"

Stiles scrubs a hand over his face, his other hand gripping, for a moment, at Derek's shirt. "Is it," he says after a moment, "terrible that I'm looking forward to Evie going back to school? I know I should be enjoying all this time with her, but - " He nods toward the tv and the _Frozen_ menu looping on screen. " - if I never see that movie again, it will be too fucking soon."

Derek laughs quietly. "You bought it."

Stiles groans. "Don't remind me. You should see my Amazon home page. My recommended items are _terrible_." 

Derek snorts, getting to his feet. "Bed?" he suggests.

"God yes," Stiles says, holding up his arms like Evie used to when she was little and wanted to he held. Derek rolls his eyes but helps Stiles up off the couch, one hand automatically slipping around to settle on his spine. Stiles grins at him, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. "Hi," he says. 

"Hi," Derek echoes, leaning in to kiss him. 

"Missed you," Stiles breathes when they pull apart. "It's going to suck when school starts again."

"You _just_ said you're looking forward to school starting again," Derek retorts. "Make up your mind."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Whatever, Mr. Logical." He softens a little, his hand seeking out Derek's. "I'm just saying. It was nice being able to spend the summer together."

"Even though you were staying home against your will?"

"Would have been a lot worse without my two favorite people around," Stiles says, squeezing his hand. Derek feels for him; god knows the amount of complaining from Stiles he's put up with all summer, but Stiles isn't exactly a "sit around and do nothing" type of person. Derek knows having to stay put has been torturous for him. 

"Evie told me you guys went to the park today," Derek says.

"The little snitch," Stiles says without venom. "I promise I took it easy, all right, but if you try to do something like hide all my shoes so I can't go outside, it's not going to stop me, and I swear to god I will stab you."

"That's not the problem," Derek says, keeping his voice calm. "Ev knows you're not supposed to be moving around much. She was worried about you."

"Oh," Stiles says blankly, and then takes off down the hall in a determined waddle. Derek follows him, wanting to tell him to slow down but biting it back, and pauses at the door when Stiles goes into Evie's room. Evie is asleep, her heartbeat steady, and she doesn't wake up when Stiles manages to contort himself downward to kiss her forehead. "Goodnight, baby girl," he murmurs, and Evie shifts toward him in her sleep.

"I won't do it again," he says, when he's back in the hall. "I don't want her to inherit your worry lines."

"That's _rude_ ," Derek says, aggravated, and he's only slightly mollified when Stiles grabs his face and rubs their noses together. Derek huffs. "Stiles - "

"Shh," Stiles says soothingly, kissing the tip of his nose. "Come to bed with me, papa wolf."

" _Stiles_ ," Derek repeats, his cheeks heating up. He helplessly follows Stiles down the hall, bumps into his back when he stops abruptly at the nursery doorway. It's all ready to go, freshly painted soft yellow, entirely gender neutral because they're keeping it a surprise this time. 

"Ready this time," Stiles says quietly. "God, remember how we rushed to get it done last time? I'm surprised poor Ev didn't end up sleeping in a cardboard box."

"Things were complicated last time," Derek says quietly, which is not to say they aren't this time - the fever that had gotten Stiles put on bedrest had been terrifying enough, but it was a little different from a Druid trying to steal their baby. 

"Mm," Stiles says, leaning back into him for a moment before heading for their room. They'd left the loft shortly before getting married, built a house in the woods not far from Laura's. It still smelled new, still had things to be done even after two years, but it felt more like a home than the loft ever had. Cora and Lydia have the loft now, though they travel so much they're hardly ever there.

Derek waits for Stiles to get himself settled in bed before climbing in after him, molding himself around him. They've always fit perfectly together. Stiles exhales slowly, his body already relaxing as he drifts toward sleep. "Missed you," he says again, almost a whisper.

"Missed you too," Derek breathes, dragging his nose against the back of Stiles' neck, soaking in the smell of him. Still, there's a little devil inside of him; he waits until Stiles is almost asleep before he whispers, "Stiles?"

"Hm," Stiles mumbles.

"Stiles," Derek says solemnly, "would you like to build a snowman?"

A pregnant man should not move with the speed Stiles does, punching Derek right in the face. In the morning, Stiles will blame Derek for his bloody nose; right now, Derek laughs until he cries, while all the while Stiles hisses, "I take it back; go back to Sacramento, you fucking scumbag!"

That's love.


	85. Chapter 85

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** Is there any way you could write a little something with Derek and Stiles gardening together again? Maybe their first garden after they move in together?
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** Mature
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, established relationship, marriage, slice of life

Derek curses when he reaches into the bag of groceries and spears his fingers on a cactus instead. He extricates himself with another curse, then pulls the pot out of the bag, eyes narrowed. “Stiles,” he says pointedly. 

“What,” Stiles says from where he’s putting stuff in the fridge.

“I thought we agreed no more plants,” Derek says, watching Stiles nearly fumble the carton of eggs and catch them at the last second.

Stiles shoots him a guilty look over his shoulder. “I had to,” he says. “Look at it, Derek. It’s so sad.”

Derek eyes the cactus, which looks fine to him, and he says so. Now he gets a scowl from Stiles. “It was on clearance.”

“I don’t care how much it cost,” Derek says. “We don’t have the _space_.” He swings his arm around in a movement that’s meant to encompass all the windowsills in the house, which are crammed with plants - with the exception of in their bedroom, because they don’t get enough light in there, and they also tend to get rowdy and break things during foreplay - and their balcony, which is also crammed with plants. 

Stiles just gives him an endearing smile. “You better get working on that house search then, babe.”

Derek deflates, torn between continuing to tell Stiles off for buying the plant and telling him off for calling him _babe_ , which Stiles thinks is cute and Derek just finds irritating, but mostly he’s unable to stay mad at Stiles, like usual, and the thought of sharing a house with him someday - a _real_ house, not a worn-out apartment like they’ve got now - is enough to leech all the minor irritation out of him anyway.

Stiles names the cactus Enrico and carefully balances him on the edge of the kitchen windowsill.

-

It’s past midnight on their wedding night and Stiles keeps mumbling _I do, I do_ against Derek’s throat as they stretch out on the bed in their hotel suite. Derek wants to tell him to stop saying it because they’re married now, but hell - they’re _married_ now, and the thrill of it is so strong he could listen to Stiles say those words forever. They’re both drunk as sin and horny as fuck, but Derek’s so tired he could barely get out of his tux, and Stiles is not much better. Stiles smells like sweat and the McDonalds they had for dinner because no one saved them food at the reception and Derek loves him so fucking much that he’s willing to stay awake and jerk him off, even though all he really wants to do is close his eyes and sleep for the next century or two. 

Stiles sucks at his throat sleepily, too much teeth and spit, mumbles against his skin, “Say something dirty.”

Derek thinks about this blearily, jerking Stiles off slowly, and finally says, “I found us a house.” Stiles makes a startled noise, his hips jolting up into Derek’s grip as he comes. Derek wipes the come on his hand onto Stiles’ thigh and fondly says, “You have the weirdest kinks.” Stiles kicks him.

-

Stiles sees the house for the first time on moving day. He’s refused to come over and see it, even after Derek’s offer was accepted and it was officially _theirs_. “I don’t want to see it until it’s done,” he’d said, because Derek wanted to get some work done on it before they moved in.

“Aren’t you excited about it?” Derek had asked, a little exasperated.

“Of course I am,” Stiles had retorted, “but I’m going to get pissed off because we can’t live there yet.”

That’s true enough; Derek’s itching to live there, a place all to their own, and works on it feverishly until the day he can carry Stiles over the threshold - bridal-style; “I do declare!” Stiles pretends to simper, arms thrown around Derek’s shoulders - and into their new home. 

“Glad I waited,” Stiles says, in that soft tone of voice that means he’s overwhelmed by whatever Derek’s just done for him. Derek grins, pleased, and leads Stiles out the back door. He’s spent all of the last week building a deck and patio - time well-invested, in his opinion - but he’d left the gardens from the previous owner, as overgrown and uncared for as they are, because he knows Stiles will want to work on them together. There’s even a small orchard at the back of the property, abused apple and pear and peach trees all clustered together.

“God I love you,” Stiles says, his eyes shining, and Derek gets half a blowjob in the kitchen - christening the house, Stiles says when he sinks to his knees - before Scott bursts through the front door and then Derek finds himself being lectured at for not locking the door. This is patently unfair, he thinks; it’s _his_ house. If anyone should be embarrassed here, it’s Scott, and yet Derek’s the one standing there with his face burning, trying to cover his boner, while Stiles pretends to have been looking for something he dropped and presses his face against Derek’s shin, laughing so hard he cries.

-

“Cucumbers,” Derek says.

“Got it,” Stiles replies, making a tick mark on his list. 

Derek squints up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “Tomatoes?” he hazards.

“Got it,” Stiles repeats. “Three kinds. Cherry, heirloom, grape.”

“Do we need cherry _and_ grape?” Derek asks, grimacing. He hates tomatoes, considers them watery bullshit.

“I _like_ tomatoes,” Stiles says moodily, but he crosses grape tomatoes off the list. “How do you feel about squash?”

“Neutral,” Derek says. He shifts around on the couch so he can slouch up against Stiles’ side and see the list. “You’ve got a lot on there. Feeling ambitious?”

“It won’t all be ready at once,” Stiles says, frowning down at his list. “You think I’m biting off more than I can chew?”

“I think we’ll have to get a second fridge to hold all your vegetables,” Derek says. 

“Well, you eat enough for five people,” Stiles says. “I just want to have enough.” But he crosses off a few more things anyway, and then throws the list down on the coffee table. “How do you feel about my dick in your ass?”

“I didn’t see that on the list,” Derek says dryly. 

“It’s a special-order item,” Stiles tells him, grinning. “Luckily, I know the supplier, so I can put a rush on it.”

Derek snorts. “Thank god.”

-

Derek builds Stiles a workbench down in the basement, and when Stiles’ seed order comes in in the spring, Stiles rigs up grow lights so he can get things growing. Derek lets Stiles do his thing, but he likes when Stiles comes out of the basement smelling like dirt and fresh life, and when the weather gets warm enough, he’s happy to help Stiles transfer things to the ground, doesn’t care about the soil that gets under his fingernails. Stiles still has nightmares sometimes, but when he does, sweating and mumbling in his sleep, the scent of terror spiking off him, all Derek has to do is wake him up and they’ll go for a walk through their gardens, bare feet on damp earth, and it’s enough to brush away any lingering fear.

Derek gets Stiles a cat for their six month anniversary, an overweight, massively fluffy male with the highly inappropriate name of Flower. Stiles, who’s been hinting about wanting a cat since they first moved in together, is delighted, though he looks a little suspicious when he asks, “Did you pick this one because of the name?”

“No,” Derek says guiltily. He definitely did. “You can pick a different name.”

“No way,” Stiles says cheerfully. Flower stares up at him with vapid adoration; Derek suspects he may have just introduced his own competition for Stiles’ love. He’s secretly gleeful when Flower knocks over Enrico after having been in the house less than twenty-four hours, but gallantly assists in Stiles’ attempt to give Enrico a Viking funeral sans water, which mainly consists of him dumping gasoline on the shattered remains and attempting to set them on fire. Being wet plant matter, Enrico doesn’t burn, but Stiles manages to set his sweatpants on fire, so it’s a merry night all around.

-

The harvest starts coming in around early June and continues to roll in in increasing quantities. Every day, Derek comes home from work to find Stiles walking the gardens with a basket of harvested produce, Flower at his heels like a small, dumb shadow. Derek likes to sit on the back deck and watch him, his face soft in the red light of the setting sun, watching him offer every plucked tomato or cucumber to Flower to sniff for approval. They’ve already decided that next year they’re going to try to bring the orchard back to life, and Stiles says, “What about bees?” one night with such a fervent glow in his eyes that it worries Derek a little.

He can’t say no to Stiles, though - never has, never will.


	86. Chapter 86

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **More from the _a mountain to climb_ verse!**
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** Teen
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, establish relationship, mpreg, kidfic, pregnancy complications

It's a quiet night in the house. Derek's in the bathroom with Evie; Stiles can hear her splashing around and giggling, Derek scolding her for something without any real heat to his voice. Stiles is doing the dishes, scrubbing sauce off a pan, when something inside of him shifts. Stiles pauses, letting the pan sink to the bottom of the sink, bringing a dripping hand out of the water to press to his stomach.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, waiting for the baby to move, but he doesn't breathe until it does, pushing against his palm. Stiles exhales then, slowly, but still he stands there, unease crawling up his spine. Something's not right.

There's a loud splash from the bathroom. "Evie!" Derek says, half laughing. Stiles turns that direction but doesn't leave the sink, one hand gripping at the counter, the other on his stomach. He's being stupid, he thinks. But. But...what if he's not? This whole pregnancy couldn't be more different from when he was pregnant with Evie. This one's been scary, and this time it's not because he's seventeen and trying to finish high school. This one's beyond his control - he shouldn't even be on his feet right now, but he's insisted on being stubborn, and if he's somehow hurt the baby because of it -

It doesn't bear thinking about. He's got three weeks to go and he's being stupid but - but he'll tell Derek. Just to be on the safe side.

Stiles carefully dries his hands off and walks down the hallway to the bathroom, one hand on the wall for support. He pauses in the doorway, smiles despite himself at the sight of his husband, who's sculpting a wig of bubbles for Evie. She waves excitedly at Stiles, saying, "Daddy, do I look _glamorous_?"

"Like a movie star," Stiles tells her. "Um, Der?"

Derek twists to look at him, his brow furrowing when he sees Stiles standing there. "What's up?"

"Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Derek's frown deepens and he gets to his feet. "Rinse your hair out, Ev," he says. "I'll be right back."

He steps out into the hallway with Stiles, puts a hand on his arm. "You okay?"

Stiles dithers for a moment before admitting, "No." Derek's brow furrows and Stiles glances anxiously toward the bathroom before he whispers, voice shaking a little - more scared than he realized, "I think something's wrong."

All the color drains from Derek's face. "Get your bag," he says.

"I don't - I'm sure it's nothing," Stiles says anxiously. "We don't need to - "

"We're going to the hospital," Derek snaps, his tone booking no argument. " _Go_." And with that, he spins on his heel, disappearing into the bathroom._ "Out, _Evelyn."

Stiles backs away toward their bedroom, struggling to keep his breath steady as he listens to Evie try to argue with Derek. He knows it's better to be safe than sorry, but going to Derek's had the opposite effect on him; he expected to be soothed, but now he's scared.

By the time he reemerges with his go bag in hand, Derek's got Evie dressed with _her _go backpack over her shoulders. She looks like she's on the verge of a tantrum, but Derek's not letting either of them drag their feet; he pushes them toward the door and out to the car, barely pausing to lock up behind them.

"I don't want to go to Grandpa's," Evie whines as Derek buckles her into her booster seat and Stiles tries to fold himself into the front seat. "I want to go to Uncle Scott's! Papa - "

"Cut it out, Evie!" Derek snaps, throwing himself into the driver's seat.

Stiles tries to mitigate the situation, twisting around to give Evie an encouraging smile. "Uncle Scott's on vacation with Aunt Kira right now, Evie-bee, you know that. You haven't seen Grandpa since last week - don’t you miss him?"

Evie drums her legs against the back of Stiles' seat and shrieks, "I want Uncle Scott!"

"You better call your dad," Derek says wearily to Stiles over the sound of Evie yelling. "He'll want a heads up."

"I'll tell him to dig out his earplugs," Stiles sighs, fishing out his phone.

Bless his dad for being flexible, though, and for having the night off. He meets them in the driveway, looking worried. "You gonna be all right?" he asks Stiles, leaning in the window as Derek wrangles Evie, still wailing, from the back.

"I'll be fine," Stiles says, with a lot more confidence than he feels. He rubs his hands over his stomach reassuringly. "It's probably gas or something."

"Call me when you know," his dad says, and Stiles nods. His dad straightens to face Derek, who's got a very sour look on his face, and addresses Evie: "What are all these tears for, young lady?"

She stops crying almost immediately, looking ashamed. "Hi, Grandpa."

Derek passes her over to Stiles' dad, who says, "I think we'll be fine. You guys sure you don't want me to drive ahead in the cruiser?"

"It's not an emergency, Dad, we'll be fine," Stiles says, Derek already backing the car down the driveway. He shouts, as they pull into the street, "Behave yourself, Ev!"

The car seems very quiet suddenly. Derek grips the wheel with both hands, his knuckles white, and Stiles reaches across the center console to rest a hand on his thigh. "You're scaring me," he says quietly.

Derek glances at him and then back at the road. "I'm scared," he says. "I'm sorry."

"We're going to be okay," Stiles says, though he's not sure it's true. He's still got this clawing sensation at the pit of his stomach; something is wrong, really wrong. He's not in pain - but he knows.

Derek exhales shakily and takes one hand off the wheel to clutch at Stiles' hand so hard it hurts a little, but Stiles doesn't complain.

At the hospital, Stiles doesn't quite know what to say to the intake nurse - "I've got a bad feeling" isn't on any of the forms he and Derek fill out, but they still patiently listen to what he has to say and then he gets shuffled off for a variety of tests; they draw blood and listen to his heart and do an ultrasound. Then they get put in a quiet examining room and Stiles sits on the table and fiddles with the hospital gown they made him change into. Derek doesn't sit, but he leans up against the table next to Stiles, his hip pressing against Stiles' knee.

"Remember Evie?" Stiles asks suddenly. Derek lifts his head to look at him. "She was so small."

"Yeah," Derek says quietly, putting his hand on Stiles' knee. "I remember."

Stiles sighs and tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. He feels warm suddenly, black spots dancing in his vision. "Der," he says. "Go get a nurse."

"Stiles?" Derek says sharply, twisting around to face him. He grabs Stiles by the shoulder. "Stiles, look at me!"

"Something's wrong," Stiles says. His tongue feels like lead. "Something's wrong."

Derek's still talking but Stiles doesn't understand what he's saying. The black spots in his vision are spreading, blocking out the light. He blinks hard once, twice, and then it's too hard to open his eyes again. "Der," he mumbles again, and then he's gone.




Stiles wakes slowly, in bits and pieces. He can hear before he can open his eyes, and he hears the low murmur of conversation and machines beeping somewhere close by. There's something on his face, pressing against his nose, and he swipes at it irritably, only to discover there's something lodged in his hand too that makes it difficult to move.

"Stiles?" Someone grabs his hand and Stiles makes an irritated noise, trying to free it, but the hand just clutches at him tighter. "Stiles, stop."

"You stop," Stiles mumbles. He manages to crack his eyes open and sees that it's Derek holding onto him. "Oh," he says, and stops trying to get free. He licks his lips, his mouth dry. "What's going on?"

Derek offers him a cup of water, holding it to his lips so he can take a sip. "You were right," he says quietly. "Something was wrong."

Stiles stares at him blankly for a long moment before it hits him: the baby. His hands fly to his stomach, but there's nothing there. "Where," he tries, panicked. "Did - "

"It's okay," Derek says gently, catching his hands. "It's okay, Stiles. They had to do an emergency c-section, but you're going to be okay and so is she."

"Oh," Stiles says weakly, relief flooding through him. Then his brain catches up: "She?"

Derek's face breaks into a smile. "We had a girl," he says.

"Fuck," Stiles breathes, his eyes burning. "Another one?"

Derek laughs. "Yes," he says fondly. "Another one."

Stiles exhales slowly, touching his stomach. The weight in the back of his hand is an IV drip; the one on his face is an oxygen line. "Can I see her?" he asks. "Where is she?"

"They want to keep her in the NICU for a couple of days," Derek says.

"Why?" Stiles asks, alarmed. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Derek says, squeezing his hand gently. "She's just a little premature so they want to make sure she's stable before she can come home with us."

"Okay," Stiles says, making himself breathe in slowly. "And I'm okay?"

"You're okay," Derek says softly. "They said it was a blood clot. You're fine now."

"Oh," Stiles says, and his eyes start burning again. "Is this my fault? Because I wouldn't stick to the bedrest?"

"No, Stiles," Derek says, his tone gentle but urgent. "No. The doctor said you were at higher risk _because_ you were on bedrest. Hey," he adds, shifting forward as Stiles presses his hands to his eyes. "It's not your fault."

Stiles doesn't _know_ that; all he knows is that things went wrong faster than he could follow, and it _scared_ him. He's still scared. "Stiles," Derek says, sounding worried. His hands are warm on Stiles' arm, but he needs more than that; he pats feebly at the bed next to him. "Please come here," he whispers, eyes clenched shut. Derek moves readily, the bed dipping as Derek sinks down next to him, curling an arm around his shoulders, nuzzling against his cheek. "You're both okay," Derek murmurs. "I promise you."

Stiles exhales roughly, almost a sob, but he manages to keep himself together - barely. Derek doesn't say anything else, just lets Stiles gather himself. He needs to think about something else for a while, so he says, "Have you talked to my dad?"

"Yeah," Derek says softly. "He wanted to come over, but I told him to stay home. He dropped Evie off at school this morning."

Stiles breathes out again, tilting his head back and opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. His eyelashes are wet and clumping together. "She okay? You talk to her?"

"She's fine," Derek says patiently, and before Stiles can ask, he adds, "I didn't tell her about the baby yet."

"She'll be disappointed," Stiles says. "She wanted a brother."

"She'll be happy with what she's got," Derek says.

Stiles sighs, closing his eyes and slouching against Derek, resting his head on his shoulder. "Hey," Derek says softly. "I love you."

"I love you too," Stiles murmurs, finding Derek's hand and tangling their fingers together. "Did you get any sleep?"

Derek presses a kiss to the top of his head. "A little," he says.

"Liar," says Stiles, who knows Derek better than that.

"Got me," Derek says quietly. "You want me to go find a nurse? See if we can get you in to see her?"

"Yeah," Stiles breathes. "You - you've seen her already?"

"For just a second," Derek replies, pressing another kiss to Stiles' cheek before he shifts off the bed and onto his feet. "They wouldn't let me into the OR with you this time."

"I'm sorry," Stiles whispers. "That must have - I'm sorry, Derek."

"Not your fault," Derek says gently, offering him an encouraging smile. "Hold tight."

Stiles watches him leave, trying to press back on the anxiety that swells in his chest. He feels godawful - not physically, thank fuck, just a little groggy and sore - but Derek is stressed, even if he's not showing it, and Stiles owes him so fucking much. He curls his fingers in the blankets covering his legs so he can't see his hands shaking; he's having trouble equating the absence of life in his stomach with something good. He wishes he'd been awake when they'd taken her out. He wishes Derek hadn't been alone for all of it.

Derek's back in a matter of moments, his eyes bright. "They said we can go see her," he says, looking delighted. "A nurse is bringing you a wheelchair."

Stiles can't help but smile, buoyed by Derek's enthusiasm; he loves him so fucking much. "Come here, you dork," he says, patting at the bed next to him, and Derek drops down next to him, nuzzling his jaw until Stiles laughs.

He's still laughing when the nurse comes in, pushing a wheelchair in front of her. "You're in good spirits," she says cheerfully. "Any pain?"

"Just stiff," Stiles says. It doesn't hurt as much as he remembers it hurting after Evie was born, but then he did just spend the last twelve plus hours unconscious. He grunts when Derek and the nurse help him into the wheelchair, but he smiles when Derek drapes the blanket over his legs, careful to tuck in all the edges.

It's quiet in the NICU; Stiles finds himself holding his breath as a nurse leads them to their baby, lifting her from the incubator and placing her in Stiles' arms. "Fuck," he breathes, his eyes burning again. "She's so _small_."

"Beautiful," Derek murmurs, leaning over the back of the wheelchair to see her too.

"We're so lucky," Stiles says reverently, brushing his fingers over her faint fuzz of hair. She makes a tiny irritable noise, waves a clenched fist around. "Did we settle on her name?"

"Poppy," Derek says, the corners of his mouth curving up.

"Poppy," Stiles repeats, closing his hand over her tiny fist. "Poppy Stilinski-Hale. Not bad."

"Not as much of a mouthful as Stanislaw," Derek agrees.

"I'd punch you if I wasn't holding our daughter right now," Stiles says, shooting him a dark look. Then he grins, unable to contain his happiness. "Our daughter," he repeats, delighted. "You want to hold her."

Derek carefully lifts her from Stiles's arms and gives her a solemn look before his eyes flash gold. Poppy waves her tiny fists and Derek smiles, rubbing his nose against her soft head. Stiles watches them, weak with happiness. They both made it.

Stiles' dad brings Evie over to the hospital later that afternoon. Derek helps Stiles back into the wheelchair so they can all go down to the NICU together, and has to stop Evie from climbing onto Stiles' lap. "Dad's a little under the weather," Derek tells Evie as they walk down the quiet hallway, Stiles' dad pushing him along.

"But it's sunny!" Evie protests, not understanding. Stiles snorts.

She's scandalized by Poppy, stares at her indignantly while Stiles holds her. "You said I was getting a brother!" Evie says, looking like she's on the verge of tears.

"We never said that," Stiles says, a little indignant himself. "We told you it was going to be a surprise."

"But I wanted a brother," Evie says, her lip wobbling.

"We can't send her back now," Stiles tells her. Behind him, Derek makes a noise like a choked off laugh. "C'mon, Evie, come and hold her."

Evie sniffs loudly, but allows Poppy to be placed in her arms. "Is she going to be as big as me?” she asks curiously.

“Someday,” Stiles says fondly. He glances over at Derek, smiling at the way his face is so soft as he watches Evie. To Evie, Stiles says, “Since you’re the big sister, it’s going to be your job to protect her, okay? Don’t ever let anybody be mean to her. You think you can do that?”

Evie nods firmly. “She’s pack?”

“She’s pack,” Derek agrees, leaning around Stiles. “But she’s family too, Ev. We take care of each other no matter what.”

Evie nods again, accepting the heavy weight of responsibility on her small shoulders - up until the moment Poppy suddenly bursts into tears. Evie shrieks in surprise and hurriedly passes her back to Stiles. Derek snorts as a couple other babies in the room begin wailing at the noise. “You sure you want more?”

Stiles grins at him. “Oh, you know me,” he says. “I like a challenge.”


	87. Chapter 87

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I’ve been spending a lot of time[here](reddit.com/r/relationships) because I love drama, and I wanted to write something angsty, so here’s some mpreg for ya.**
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, mpreg, drama
> 
>  **WARNING:** unplanned pregnancy, discussion of abortion

Stiles' hands are cold. He keeps curling his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt, pulling anxiously at the cotton, over and over. He can't meet Derek's eyes. 

"You're not happy," Derek says quietly. He'd smiled at first when Stiles had slid the test across the counter at him, real joy glittering in his eyes - but it had quickly faded when Stiles didn't match his enthusiasm. Now he frowns at Stiles. He hasn't even taken his jacket off yet. "You don't want this."

"No," Stiles says, still not meeting his eyes. He feels sick, which shouldn't be a surprise; he's been puking all week. 

"Why not?" Derek sounds hurt. "I thought we were on the same page. I thought you wanted - " 

"I do!" Stiles exclaims. "I just - not _now,_ Derek! I've still got a year of grad school left!" He waves a hand in the air. "I still want all the big picture stuff with you - of course I do! But - this is _not_ a good time!"

Derek doesn't say anything. Stiles chances a look at him and finds him looking at the test. He doesn't look angry, but he looks remarkably unhappy. Stiles feels more ill than ever. 

"I can't keep it, Der," he says, pleadingly. "But it doesn't mean we can't have kids in the future."

Derek's lips thin. "I can take care of it," he says. "I'll quit my job - you can keep going to school."

"I can't," Stiles says. "Derek, I can't - I don't want it, not now." He can't even put into words how horrified he is - he wants to claw at his stomach, rip it out of him.

"Why didn't you just go get rid of it, then?" Derek snaps. He _is_ angry, eyes flashing blue. "Why are you even telling me about this?"

Stiles blinks, hurt. "I wouldn't do that to you," he says. They're supposed to be a team.

"So what, then?" Derek says furiously. "You'll just dangle it in my face and tell me I can't have it? You made up your mind the moment you saw the test."

Stiles looks at his hands. He doesn't have a response to that; he'd just seen the result and immediately needed to share it. He'd thought Derek would agree with him that it wasn't the right time. "I don't want to keep secrets from you," he says quietly.

"I wish you fucking had!" Derek snarls. He shoves the test back across the counter with such force that it flies off the edge and goes skittering across the kitchen floor. Before Stiles can say anything, Derek spins on his heel and storms upstairs; a moment later, their bedroom door slams shut.

Stiles leans back against the fridge, hurt tears burning at his eyes.  He hadn't expected Derek to react like this. Stiles knows how much Derek wants kids, but they'd always agreed Stiles would finish up school and they'd at least have a wedding date _set_ before they began trying for a baby. They'd never talked about what they'd do if there was an accident.

Derek doesn't come back downstairs all evening. Stiles resolutely eats dinner alone, then works on homework until he's too tired to avoid going upstairs any longer. Derek's in bed when Stiles gently opens the door, his back to the room. Stiles knows he's not asleep; Derek almost always ends up on his stomach, but he doesn't say anything. He gets out of his clothes and slips on a shirt, then goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he comes out, Derek hasn't moved. Stiles wants to say something to him as he slides into bed, but he doesn't know what. For all that they bicker and snark at each other, it's rare they have a true argument.

Stiles shuts off the light and lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling while he listens to Derek's too deliberately slow breathing. It's a long time before he falls asleep. Derek never moves.

\- 

In the morning, Derek leaves while Stiles is in the shower, so he misses Stiles puking afterward. He doesn't say good morning or - and this stings - _I love you,_ which he _always_ does before leaving, usually tossing in a soft kiss to Stiles' cheek. If Stiles cries about it, his cheek pressed to the cool porcelain, only the toilet is there to witness it.

He goes to school, TAs his morning class, TAs his afternoon class, then works in the lab for a couple of hours, feeling miserable. He has to hide his phone away after a while, because he keeps compulsively checking it, but Derek doesn't try to contact him, and the silence is really starting to hurt. He texts Derek once - _I'll be home late -_ but Derek doesn't respond. Stiles goes and sits in the library for a while, and he wonders miserably if this is it for them, or even if they don't break up, if they'll ever really be able to bounce back from it.

When he goes home, Derek's not there, and his heart just gets heavier. He thinks about calling Scott, but he's not ready to talk about this with anyone. He eats a bowl of cereal, and he's still standing there munching morosely when Derek comes home. He pauses in the front hallway, the two of them regarding each other warily, and Derek breaks first, moving forward with an angry shrug of his shoulders. He doesn't come into the kitchen but heads upstairs without speaking; a little while later, the shower turns on. Stiles is no longer hungry; he throws his half-full bowl into the sink and feels viciously satisfied when it shatters.

He doesn't go upstairs; Stiles sleeps on the couch and tries not to think about the baby growing inside him.

-

Stiles wakes before Derek the next morning, and he has to do _something_ ; he can't take the silence another day. He scrubs his hands through his hair and then he heads upstairs to their bedroom. It's reasonable, he thinks. His toothbrush is in there, and so are his clothes. But he loses some of his nerve when he gets to the doorway and sees that Derek's awake, face turned toward the door. He looks at Stiles, his face blank, but doesn't say anything. 

Stiles shifts anxiously from foot to foot until he blurts out, "Can we talk about this?"

Derek nods slowly, stretching out his arm to pat at the bed next to him. Stiles settles down next to him gratefully, cross legged and suddenly tongue tied. He's shaking a little, nerves and anxiety rattling him, and he doesn't still until Derek reaches over and puts a hand on his knee.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you," he says quietly. 

Stiles swallows hard. "It's - " He has to stop himself from automatically saying _it's okay._ It's not okay; he's really hurt by the way Derek acted. He shrugs.

Derek watched him, his pale eyes unreadable. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I was putting my wants before yours."

"I want kids too, Derek," Stiles says. "But I'm not ready for this. I always thought - when we had kids, we'd be at a completely different point of our lives. I thought it'd be a decision we'd make together, and if I got pregnant, it wasn't going to be a surprise, just a matter of _when."_ He draws in a deep breath. Derek doesn't say anything, so Stiles plunges forward. "I wanted it to be something I was happy about, but - I'm not happy. I think about having this baby and I just feel scared."

"I can help you," Derek says, but there's no real fight to his voice, like he knows Stiles isn't going to cede his side.

"I know," Stiles says, his heart aching. "I just - this should be exciting. For both of us. But all I can think about is how I didn't want this."

Derek flinches. Stiles hates doing this to him. He knows Derek loves him, but the deaths of his family have left a void in his chest, and he's desperate for his own flesh and blood to love. 

"Are you going to resent me forever if I don't keep it?"

"No," Derek says, but his answer's so slow coming that they both know it's not true. He takes his hand off Stiles' knee and rubs it over his face. "Your mind's made up?" he asks, closing his eyes. 

Stiles hesitates to answer. _Yes_ is the obvious answer, but if yes means losing Derek, he's not sure he can face it. A decision this big deserves some thought, and he's got time - a little bit, anyway - before he needs to make a choice. "Not entirely," Stiles says, and he hates the hope he sees flash across Derek's face. "I'm going to think about it, but not here," he tells Derek. "I'm going to go stay with my dad for a while."

"Oh," Derek says quietly, looking hurt. "Now?"

"Now," Stiles says, even though he wasn't planning on it. It's probably for the best, he thinks. Now, before he loses his nerve.

Derek doesn't say anything, just watches Stiles slide off the bed and take his duffle bag out of the closet. He loads it indiscriminately, going into the bathroom and dumping his shit into the bag. He's half under the bed trying to get his phone charger when he's hit by a wave of morning sickness and has to go scrambling for the bathroom instead. He's surprised when Derek follows him, gently rubs at his back. When it subsides, Derek gets him a glass of water and Stiles leans back against Derek's legs while he drinks it. 

"I want to take care of you," Derek tells him unhappily, carding his fingers through Stiles' hair.

"I know, puppy," Stiles mumbles, pressing his forehead to Derek's thigh. Derek makes a hurt noise, and Stiles knows it's not fair to use his special pet name - none of it's fair. "I just need some space."

Derek pulls his hand away. "You should get going, then," he says flatly, and Stiles bites back a sigh. 

Grabbing his duffle bag, Stiles heads downstairs to collect his school stuff. He's going too fast; he's probably missing stuff, and then he'll have to come sneaking back in at some point, but Derek's followed him downstairs, and Stiles is too aware of his presence; Derek's got his surliest look on, his arms crossed over his chest. 

Finally, Stiles shoves the last book into his school bag and straightens. "Well," he says. "That's me."

Derek doesn't say anything, just inclines his head very slightly. Stiles is a little hurt Derek doesn't try to stop him going; the new burst of anger is enough to propel him toward the door, snatching his keys off the kitchen counter as he goes. 

He stops short at the front door, though, fingers curling tight around his keys, the metal biting into his skin. This feels like a goodbye, and he almost changes his mind. He looks over his shoulder. Derek hasn't moved, his expression more stony than ever. Stiles swallows. "I love you," he says.

Derek's face softens. "I love you too."

They watch each other for a long moment before Stiles turns and forces himself to open the door. This is for the best, he tells himself. Just a couple days to think.

-

His dad's not home when Stiles gets there, which is fine with him; he dumps his bags in the hallway and collapses onto the couch, where he stretches out and tries not to think about anything. This turns into a long nap, and when he wakes up, his dad's standing over him, looking a little exasperated.

"I thought we were past the days of you coming home from school and camping out in the living room," he says lightly, though there's concern in his eyes. "Everything all right?"

"Derek and I are fighting," Stiles tells him.

His father raises his eyebrows. "What about?"

Stiles tries to find the courage to say _I'm pregnant,_ but fails completely. "I don't want to talk about it," he says instead.

"Hm," says his dad, a sound that means he's willing to drop it - for now. "How do you feel about Chinese for dinner?"

"Dinner?" Stiles repeats. He squints at the clock over the TV, which tells him it's almost six in the evening. His missed all of his classes. _"Shit."_

"I'll order extra egg rolls," his father says sagely, heading for the kitchen. "You look like you need them."

-

His dad works it out of him eventually, although it takes a couple of days. Stiles avoids thinking about the baby successfully most of the time, and tries to ignore how guilty this makes him feel. Derek doesn't contact him, and it's not like he and Derek ever texted each other much anyway, but it still hurts. He knows leaving was his idea, and that Derek's probably both angry and trying to respect his space, but he misses him.

His dad doesn't even seemed surprised when Stiles finally tells him he's pregnant, and for some reason he finds that highly offensive. "Figured it'd happen at some point," his dad says with a shrug.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Stiles asks peevishly.

"Well," his father says calmly, taking a sip of coffee. "You guys seem settled. You have a house together and everything."

"We're not settled!" Stiles snaps. "I'm still in school!"

"Right," his dad says evenly. "But stuff like this happens."

"Do you think - do you think I should keep it?" Stiles asks, touching his stomach tentatively. He hasn't made an appointment for the abortion yet; he keeps finding reasons to put it off.

"That's your decision, son," his dad says, shaking his head. "It's your life."

"You're no help," Stiles complains.

"And you're a grownup," his dad retorts. "Act like one."

Stiles doesn't want to; he's moody and petulant, moping around the house when he's not in class. The only bright spot in his week is when Scott comes over, and even then Stiles feels sick at the way his dark eyes go wide and awed when Stiles tells him he's pregnant.

"You're having a baby?" he breathes, eyeing Stiles' stomach like he wants to touch it.

"No," Stiles says irritably. "Or - I don't know. Derek wants it."

"Oh," Scott says knowingly. "That's why he looked so sad."

"You saw him?" Stiles asks eagerly. "Where? Did he say anything?"

"At the store," Scott says, suddenly frowning. "Hey, I'm not going to be your spy. He's _your_ boyfriend."

Stiles sighs, throwing himself back against the couch. "He's pissed at me because I don't want to keep it. I don't know what to do."

"You'd be a good dad," Scott says encouragingly.

"No I wouldn't," Stiles sighs. "I thought maybe someday - but now I don't know. I thought - I thought when I got pregnant it would be exciting, you know? That I'd want to spend all my time thinking about baby names, and singing it lullabies - stupid shit like that, but this - " He gestures angrily at his stomach, where his stomach's barely changed; he just looks like he had a big meal. "It doesn't even feel like there's anything in me. How can I be excited about that?"

Scott shrugs. "I hear that's pretty normal, man. Not everyone bonds with their baby, even after it's born. Sometimes it takes a while. That doesn't mean you can't love it."

Stiles scratches his hands through his hair. "But I've got classes and teaching and - "

Scott shrugs again. "Sure, it'd be hard, dude, but you could make it work. I'd help out - we all would, and your dad too. And you know Derek would steal the moon for you if you asked. Plenty of people have done it - my mom was still in school when she had me, and she still got her degree."

Stiles looks at him thoughtfully. Maybe he hasn’t been thinking about this the right way.

-

That night, he texts Derek: _hi_

Two days later he gets _hi._

_-_

Stiles stays at his dad’s place for a month and a half. He doesn’t mean to, but it’s so much easier to avoid thinking about his problems when he doesn’t see Derek every day - except that he thinks about Derek _all the time._ He loves Derek so fucking much; every time he steels himself, telling himself that today’s the day he’s going to call and make himself an appointment, he starts thinking instead about how miserable Derek would be if he went through with it. He finds himself wondering if it would really be as bad as he’s made it out to be; maybe he was too quick to jump to a decision.

And, when he _really_ starts to think about it, he knows that everything he’s brought up is just an excuse - finishing school would be hard, sure, but Scott was right when he pointed out that everyone would help out, and there’s a fellow grad student in his lab who’s got three kids, and she’s doing all right. He’s scared; he’s scared that he’s going to be a shitty dad and fuck up his kid’s life. But he know that this, too, is stupid, because Derek’s going to be there. Derek would make an awesome dad, Stiles knows; he’d do anything to take care of Stiles and the baby - take care of _them._

Stiles touches his stomach hesitantly. His dad had said maybe he should go get checked out at the doctor’s office and make sure everything’s okay, but like everything else, Stiles has been putting it off...mostly because if he goes, he wants Derek there with him. And that, he realizes, is it. That’s all he wants - Derek with him. If it means that they’re having a kid a little ahead of schedule, so be it. 

Stiles picks up his phone, palms a little sweaty. They haven’t had a real conversation since he left. They exchanged a couple of texts here and there, but nothing of any importance or feeling. Derek hasn’t asked about the baby, and Stiles knows it’s probably killing him. Stiles’ thumb hovers over the keyboard, wondering if he should text at all or just show up at home, when someone rings the front doorbell. Stiles sighs and drops his phone onto the table, getting to his feet. 

It’s Derek. Stiles freezes when he sees him, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. “Hi,” he says uncertainly. Derek looks tired and unhappy, and seeing him makes Stiles’ heart ache. “What are you doing here?”

“I miss you,” Derek says simply. He lifts a grocery bag Stiles hadn’t noticed he was holding. “I thought we could do dinner, if you’re interested.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, stepping aside so he can enter the house. He watches Derek kick off his shoes and shrug off his jacket, but he catches his arm when Derek turns toward the kitchen. “I missed you too,” he says, his throat aching.

Derek’s face does something complicated and then he carefully sets the grocery bag down on the floor before drawing Stiles in for a hug. Stiles exhales gratefully and buries his face against Derek’s throat, holding onto him tightly. 

“I don’t like you not being around,” Stiles mumbles into Derek’s shoulder. 

“Me either,” Derek rumbles, rubbing his cheek against Stiles’ hair. He pulls back so he can see Stiles’ face. "I'm sorry," he says. "I was being selfish."

"So was I," Stiles says. "You don't need to apologize to me." He takes Derek's hand in his, tugs him toward the living room. "Come on, let's - sit."

Derek follows him obediently and sits close to him on the couch. It's all Stiles can do to keep himself from climbing into Derek's lap; he's missed him so much - his smell, his touch, his everything. But there are serious things to say be first, and as Stiles gathers the courage to tell Derek what he's been thinking about, Derek gets there first, swiftly saying, "If you want to get an abortion, I want to be there with you. You shouldn't do it alone."

Stiles stares at him, thrown off guard. "But - you want this."

"And you don't," Derek returns. He smiles sadly. "I know it's not the right time. I just got caught up in my excitement. We can plan for it when you're ready - if you still want to be together."

"Jesus, are you kidding me? Of course I fucking do," Stiles says indignantly, and then he _does_ scramble into Derek's lap, and it's such a relief when Derek's hands lift to brace him instead of push him away. Stiles presses their foreheads together, his heart hammering in his chest. "I love you," he says, "and I'm keeping this baby."

Derek inhales sharply, jerking his head back so her can see Stiles' face. "You - you are? But you said - "

"I know," Stiles says. "I said a lot of things, and some of them are still true. I'm - really fucking scared, Derek, but... I know we'll be okay with you."

"You will," Derek promises hoarsely, his eyes glittering suspiciously. "Thank you, _thank you."_

Stiles smiles and shifts in closer, resting his head on Derek's shoulder. "You should touch it," he says.

"Don't say _it,"_ Derek says with a bite of irritation, but he slips a hand under Stiles' shirt, splaying his fingers over Stiles' stomach and his barely-there bump. He makes a soft noise, a little pained, mostly happy, pressing his nose to Stiles' jaw. "Do we need to get married now?"

"No," Stiles says decidedly. "Not yet. After I graduate." He eyes Derek and adds, "But if you want to _ask_ , I can't imagine I'd say no."

Derek looks immeasurably pleased. "Consider yourself warned then," he says, and doesn't fight back when Stiles pushes him down onto the couch.

(Later, Stiles’ dad will trip over the grocery bag still sitting out in the hallway, kicking melted ice cream everywhere. He’ll click his tongue disapprovingly at the sight of his son and his son’s boyfriend barely dressed and asleep on the couch, but neither of them will wake.)


	88. Chapter 88

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is the royalty AU from a couple chapters back's other side - from Stiles' POV.**
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, royalty au, arranged marriage au, medieval au, enemies to lovers

Not long after Stiles’ mother dies, a valet tries to dress him and drag him out to a state dinner; Stiles bites him on the hand and the valet slaps him across the face. “Hateful little beast,” he says viciously, as Stiles’ other valet hurries him out of the room, horrified. Later, Stiles’ father gently admonishes him, tells him he can’t _bite_ people when he doesn’t agree with what they’re doing. Stiles cries when he’s scolded, partially because he _is_ sorry, but mostly because he got in trouble. His father rubs his hand over Stiles’ head and says it’s all right; he knows Stiles is upset because his mother’s not there. 

“I miss her too,” he says softly, sadly. 

Stiles’ father always understands him better than anyone, even Scott, who Stiles has known since he was a toddler, so Stiles isn’t sure why he’s so surprised when Stiles doesn’t take the news of the marriage his father has arranged for him well. “You promised me,” he hisses, fingers curled into his palms so tight that his fingernails bite into his skin. “You _promised_ I’d never have to leave the kingdom.”

“Stiles,” his father sighs wearily, rubbing at his temples. His crown fits poorly, chafes at the skin there; he’s always complaining of headaches. “I’m sorry, but I’m betwixt a rock and a hard place. Our waters are overfished and our coffers are emptying fast. King Hale has resources enough; the trade between our kingdoms will keep us alive. I have to do what’s best for our people, you know that!” His voice is pleading, begging Stiles to see reason, but all Stiles sees is red. 

“So you’ll send me away?” he hisses. “Send me to some - some _alpha_ so he can screw an heir into me?”

His father winces. “Hale’s said to be a good man,” he says. “A good king - a scholar.” _Like you,_ his tone implies.

“Wonderful,” Stiles says scathingly. “I’m sure he’ll quote poetry at me while he fucks me through my heats.”

 _“Stiles!”_ his father snaps, his face flushing red with anger, splotchy like Stiles’. “This is for the good of the kingdom!”

“It better be,” Stiles says coldly, drawing himself up. “It better be worth it, because if you send me to him, I will never speak to you again.”

“Sew your mouth shut, then,” his father says furiously. “I send your acceptance of his proposal tomorrow.”

Stiles is true to his word; in the weeks that follow, and amongst the flurry of activity that follows his betrothal, he speaks nary a word to his father. His father’s anger fades; after a few days he is conciliatory, apologetic in tone and action, but Stiles’ anger is unlike his father’s - it runs deep and cold and eternal, and he meets every attempt at an apology from his father with stony silence. Even on his last day in the kingdom, as a valet helps him step up into the carriage that will carry him to his husband, he is unbending, turning his head away when his father leans in to plead, “Please, Stiles. This isn’t a death sentence. Give him a chance.”

Stiles says nothing, grips at his knees so tightly he finds bruises there later. His father wavers, then says unhappily, “Be safe on your journey. I love you.” Stiles bits down on the inside of his cheek, his eyes burning. He doesn’t turn his head until they’ve left the city and when he finally does, he finds a small package on the seat next to him that must have been left there by his father. He’s sorely tempted to throw it out the carriage window unopened, but some vestige of softness clings to him and he opens it. Inside, there’s a locket, and inside that is a miniscule portrait of his mother, a double of the portrait that hangs - _hung,_ he reminds himself bitterly - over the fireplace in his bedroom, her smile soft and familiar. 

The air that rolls in through the carriage window is fresh and green, but all Stiles tastes is salt.

-

What follows is two weeks of riding in an increasingly uncomfortably and cloying carriage, and long nights spent at homely country inns, or at the estates of friends of the kingdoms - before long, Stiles is not sure which is worse. His anger settles to a cold, calculating fury that wraps around his bones, chilling his heart. He’s already decided that he will do his best for this new kingdom - he may be angry and insolent, but even he has the empathy to put his people before his emotions - but he will _never_ love his husband-to-be. King Hale - scholar, good man, good king may he be - is still the one who put _forth_ this abhorrent offer; Stiles wouldn’t have been dragged from his kingdom if not for him, and he’ll never forgive him for that.

It makes him furious when he climbs from the carriage and finds his king waiting for him and he is _handsome_. If he were hideous, Stiles could _possibly_ understand his need to arrange a marriage, but this - he could have _anyone._ Why did he have to pull Stiles from his homeland?

It gives Stiles the greatest pleasure to lace his words with acid and watch the dismay creep over the king’s face. _Hateful little beast,_ the valet says in his head, and Stiles grins savagely as they walk up to the castle. He finds vicious satisfaction in cutting off the king at every turn, rebuffing his every attempt at kindness. If Stiles is miserable, so will his king be; no amount of welcome can hide the fact that Stiles doesn’t and never wanted to be here, and they both know it. 

Behind all of his anger, though, Stiles is lonely. People expect him to be with the king - _Derek,_ he says once, softly, almost pleadingly, and Stiles pretends he said nothing at all - so Stiles spends a lot of time alone. He sits in the garden a lot, watches the sun set with his fingers curled around the locket his father gave him, his heart aching for his home. He’s a little surprised that Derek hasn’t forced him to bed; the first couple nights of their marriage, he slept on the couch in the outer room, and in the nights since they’ve shared the bed, but Derek stays stiffly on his own side, his back turned to Stiles. Stiles knows it won’t last forever; the only reason he’s here is to give Derek an heir, to ensure his lineage continues to rule the kingdom. Derek won’t leave him alone forever; eventually, he’ll _need_ an heir.

But still, somehow, Stiles begins to thaw a little, his eternal anger easing as the weeks pass. He’s been startled to find that he enjoys playing king - his father always took care of their kingdom’s affairs, but Derek seems to expect him to engage with their people, and he would drag his heels against Derek’s wishes, but he made a promise to himself - the kingdom isn’t to blame for his marriage. People actually seem to _like_ him, which is startling; they wave and cheer when he appears on the streets, like he’s important to them. The other nobles like him too. Once, confusingly, a lord makes him laugh and he finds himself looking around to see if Derek’s heard the joke as well, but Derek’s not looking at him, his face creased in that unhappy look he’s worn since Stiles’ arrival in the kingdom. For the first time, Stiles feels a twinge of regret, knowing he put that expression there. _Hateful little beast,_ he tells himself, but it no longer feels like something he should be proud of.

Before Stiles can sort out his feelings, word arrives that his father has fallen ill, ill enough that he cannot rule, and Stiles must return to the kingdom to rule in his stead. The news of his illness sweeps away the last crumbling walls of Stiles’ anger toward him; all he feels now is a deep worry and fear that he’s going to lose his father just as he lost his mother. He clenches the locket in his fist the entire journey home, so tight that there’s a circular imprint in his palm for days after his arrival.

For the first week of his return, his father is lost in fever, incoherent, and Stiles can hardly stand to visit him, reminded too much of his mother in her last days. He busies himself with the affairs of the kingdom and surprises himself at how easy it is after weeks in his own kingdom. It reminds him uncomfortably of Derek, and he’s even more surprised when he’s handed a letter over dinner, which turns out to be from Derek. Their communications before he left were few - Stiles let his valet inform Derek of his father’s illness and Stiles’ need to return to his kingdom, and if Derek had anything to say about the matter, Stiles heard nothing of it. He skims the letter irritably; Derek’s writing is polite, sharing news of the kingdom, but it’s nothing important. He scowls, wondering why Derek even bothered to write.

It’s not until the fourth letter - as the letters have continued to appear without any response on Stiles’ part - arrives that it occurs to Stiles to wonder if Derek actually _cares_ that he’s gone. Stiles isn’t sure why he would; it’s not like he’s shown Derek the slightest bit of kindness, but the details of the letters are so mundane, so unnecessary, that surely Derek wouldn’t be putting forth the effort unless he feels as though Stilesis _worth_ the effort. Stiles swallows uneasily, rereads the letter anxiously. He thinks about it all night, and the next morning he presses down against the nerves in his chest and writes Derek back. He doesn’t know what to say, so he sticks to the matters of the kingdom and his father’s health. It’s good enough, he thinks anxiously, sealing the letter with wax. 

His father’s fever breaks a couple days later, and finally Stiles can visit him without holding his breath, afraid that if he starts, his father will stop. It’s a couple days longer before he can hold a conversation longer than a few sentences, but when Stiles opens his mouth to apologize, his father just squeezes his hand gently and says, “I know. I know you were angry, and you had every right to be.”

“I didn’t,” Stiles says. “My job is to keep our kingdom thriving, and if that means marrying…well. I should have expected it.“

“I still should have asked first,” his father says. “Made you feel like you had a choice in the matter, at least.” He watches Stiles for a long moment, his breathing slow, face tired. “Has he been kind to you?”

“Yes,” Stiles says, not looking at his father. 

“And have you been kind to him?”

“No,” Stiles admits quietly, his cheeks burning with shame.

His father is silent for a long moment before he says, “I raised you better than that.” That’s all he says, but he doesn’t need to say any more, his voice heavy with disappointment. Stiles doesn’t need to hear it; he knows full well what a - a - a _hateful little beast_ he’s been, and he knows he needs to change. He can do it, he thinks a little desperately, if only because he doesn’t want to spend the next fifty years of his life trapped in a miserable marriage - but also because his heart tightens with guilt whenever he thinks about Derek’s unhappy face and the knowledge that it’s Stiles who makes him look like that. 

He receives a letter from Derek the next morning - more mundane news of the kingdom, but at the bottom, in a slightly different color of ink, like an afterthought - or perhaps a sudden dash of courage - it says _tell me how_ _you_ _are doing_ and reading it sends an odd thrill down his spine.

-

The last letter arrives on the morning of Stiles’ departure. It’s harder to leave this time, without his anger to carry him over the threshold, but eventually his father shoos him outside to where Stiles’ carriage waits to carry him back to his kingdom. They hug for a long time, Stiles grateful his father can walk again, his father grateful his son will speak to him again. They finally part, and as Stiles settles himself in for the long journey ahead, his valet passes him a letter. “Just arrived,” he explains, before swinging himself out to join the driver up front.

Stiles doesn’t open it immediately; instead he waves to his father and the other gathered nobles and the crowds lining the streets. In fact, he forgets about the letter completely until later that night when they arrive at an inn. He goes to stand and the letter slithers out from where it had come to a rest under his leg. He opens it later, while he’s bathing, and nearly drops it in the water when he reads the single line: _I would love you if you would let me._

Stiles reads it over and over, his heart pounding in his chest, his eyes burning. He doesn’t know _why,_ after the way Stiles has treated him, Derek would even want him at all. He’s either desperate or - Stiles grinds the heels of his palms against his eyes - he’s just as lonely as Stiles is, and it’s all Stiles’ fault. If he hadn’t been so stubborn, so _angry_ , maybe he could have actually been enjoying his life these past few months instead of stewing himself - and Derek - in misery.

Stiles thinks on it for the entire journey back to his kingdom, and when they finally enter the city, the carriage wheels bumping over uneven paving stones, Stiles realizes that he’s nervous. He was too angry to be nervous upon his first arrival in the city, when he met Derek for the first time, but now he sits anxiously, and when the carriage stops in front of the palace, Stiles has to scrub his hands against his knees to rid them of nervous sweat. 

Derek’s waiting for him when he steps down from the carriage, and while he may have opened to Stiles in his letters, he’s closed off now, face stony and unwelcoming. Stiles hesitates as he climbs from the carriage, and hesitates again when the crowd outside the palace shouts for him, and he sees the resentment flicker across Derek’s face. He tries to be friendly, but it only bewilders Derek; Stiles can see the confusion in his eyes. He sighs to himself; he shouldn’t expect a miracle but…but the letter folded in his breast pocket gives him hope.

Stiles pays attention to Derek now in a way he refused to before, and what he sees makes his heart ache with guilt. He sees a man devoted to his kingdom, who is kind and fair to his courtiers and commoners and servants alike. He’s kind even to Stiles, even now; polite even when they’re alone in their rooms, turns his back when Stiles is changing and doesn’t even try to sneak a look. Stiles sees the miserable set of his jaw and the stiff way he lays in bed at night, back turned to Stiles, an invisible line painted down the middle of their bed so obvious it might as well be real, made of brick and painted bright pink. 

He’s aware now, almost painfully so, of the stiff way Derek holds himself around Stiles, of the hurt that settles on his features when he thinks Stiles isn’t looking. Stiles never tried to make an effort with him before but he tries now with all of his might, including Derek in his glances, listening when Derek speaks - but if anything, his behavior only appears to make Derek grow suspicious; he sees the way Derek looks at him, his eyes narrowed like he suspects some sort of trick. It hurts but it is, Stiles thinks, no less than he deserves.

He lies awake at night and watches Derek sleep, watches the wide expanse of his shoulders slowly relax as he slips into sleep. He reaches out once, stops his hand an inch from Derek’s back, so close he can feel the heat from his body, and then he withdraws it, sure he’d be scorned. He goes into heat a couple days later and Derek moves to sleep in the outer room but he pauses for a moment in the doorway, his pale eyes flickering over Stiles, and Stiles sits as though pinned there, waiting for Derek to speak, his heart thundering in his chest and sweat gathering at his temples. Derek says nothing, however, and moves on. Stiles throws his head back against the pillows, tears of shame gathering at the corners of his eyes. 

Stiles can take it no longer; his heat passes, and then he gives himself a couple extra days to feel normal again, and then he catches Derek before he can slip away after dinner like he always does. When Stiles touches his arm, Derek looks at him like he’s never seen him before and Stiles nearly loses all nerve, his mouth gone dry as a bone, but he manages to ask, “Would you walk with me in the garden?” He’s not hopeful about it; he actually expects Derek to decline, so he’s surprised when, after a moment of suspicious silence, Derek nods and walks with him out to the garden. 

It’s hard - harder than he imagined. Stiles is proud, and not good at admitting fault, and the hurt that flickers over Derek’s face when he apologizes for the way he’s treated him makes Stiles want to cry. He doesn’t expect Derek’s forgiveness - the gods know Stiles wouldn’t have, if he were in Derek’s place - but it’s hard to watch his expression cycle through anger and hurt and misery. He’s suspicious, like he thinks this is a joke, and that doesn’t change until Stiles pulls out the letter; the vulnerability that floods his face at the sight of it hurts Stiles to look at. 

But for some reason, Derek doesn’t scorn him. He lets Stiles in - albeit tentatively - and as the weeks slip past and they grow to know each other, Stiles can’t believe he ever wanted to push Derek away. He’s thoughtful and notices everything; he learns Stiles’ favorite foods and saves him his favorite flavor of scones so they’re still there when he comes to breakfast late. He shares books and journals he thinks Stiles might like, looks for him in crowds, always asks his opinion in matters of state. Derek’s expression is generally solemn, but Stiles learns to read the nuanced changes of it, finding the humor hidden there. Derek listens intently when Stiles tells him of his kingdom and childhood, and his heart soars when Derek shares some of the same, sorrow and fondness blending on his face. Stiles learns that he loves his hair to be touched, the way he goes boneless when Stiles scrapes his fingernails against Derek’s scalp, the soft noises he makes in pleasure. Stiles learns the comfort of sharing a bed with someone, of the way it feels to sleep pressed up against another, of how it feels to wake together.

The first time Derek beds him, they’re both nervous. Derek touches him like he’s made of glass, and Stiles shakes with it, laughing anxiously until his laughs turn to groans. The second time is better, and the third better so. The first heat they spend together is a wild blur; after it ends, Stiles can barely walk, and Derek radiates a smug satisfaction that Stiles would have struck off his face had he not felt the same. Their kingdom prospers; by their third summer together, their coffers are overflowing and Stiles is with child and his love for Derek runs wild like a mountain stream - pure and strong and not for the faint of heart.


	89. Chapter 89

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** Deputy Derek Hale is hopelessly in love with an underage male stripper - the most gorgeous, perfect thing he has ever seen.
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** Explicit
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, stripper!Stiles, cop!Derek, underage, blowjobs, badwrong

As the rookie on the force, Derek’s sent on all the calls no one else wants to go on - domestic calls, mostly. Disturbances. He spends many evenings wrestling lowlifes into the back of his cruiser. He gets punched in the face once. He spends a lot of time under a hot shower when he gets off duty, washing himself clean, clearing his head. He comes to know the dirtiest dive bars and other fine establishments of the city’s underbelly, breaking up fights, calming upset patrons, responding to thefts and assaults.

It’s a fight in the parking lot that introduces him to the grimy spectacle that’s The Dirty Mind Lounge. He’s paired off with Parrish on this one - Parrish is the next newest hire after him, so they get sent together to the shitty calls a lot - but when they get to the place, half the fight is laying in a heap in the middle of the parking lot and, according to witnesses, the other half’s gone inside to have a drink. Parrish volunteers to go to the hospital with the lump in the parking lot, which leaves Derek to go inside to find the other guy.

He’s been in most of the city’s other strip clubs - never for pleasure; police calls only - but this one’s probably the worst he’s seen, the interior dim and reeking with cigarette smoke and…other things. Everything inside looks like it’s about twenty years out of date, cracked and fading with age. Booths along the wall are lined with shiny vinyl that’s split and revealing the foam upholstery underneath. Derek contains a shudder, resolving not to touching _anything_ inside, and promising himself an extra-long shower when he gets home.

He scans the place, looking for his perp, when his eyes land on the dancer on stage. He’s young and lithe, lean but muscular, and he moves with a grace unlike Derek’s ever seen before, twisting himself around the pole like it’s an extension of his body. He’s wearing a baggy pair of sweatpants that dip to show the band of his underwear, no shirt, and Derek swallows hard at the sight of his creamy skin, flecked with small moles.

The dancer twists around, grinds his ass against the pole in such an obscene way that Derek’s dick twitches in his pants. When the dancer lifts his eyes, it’s like he _knows;_ his amber eyes snap to Derek’s and he _smiles._

Derek jerks his eyes away, glaring around the smoky room. He spots the man who has to be his perp, nursing a bloody nose and a bottle of Michelob Light, and hauls the man outside for questioning. He sneaks a look at the dancer as he pushes his perp toward the door; the dancer blows him a kiss and then pushes down his pants, baring tight boxers and soft thighs. Derek fixes his eyes on the door, sweat gathering at his temples. He’s got a job to do.

-

Derek forgets about the strip club and the dancer. He sees a lot of people every day, does a lot of paperwork, makes court appearances. Sure, maybe he jerks off to the thought of the stripper a couple times in that first week, but after a month, he’s got other things to think about, and he completely forgets about the dancer at all until an assault call sends him to an address, and that address turns out to be The Dirty Mind Lounge. Still, Derek doesn’t remember until he steps inside and smells that unforgettable smoke-sweat-spunk smell, and his eyes go automatically to the stage, but it’s a woman dancing there, topless.

Derek averts his eyes and catches the eye of the bartender, who points him toward a stool where a dancer sits, her arms crossed over her chest. She’s the assaulter, having punched a patron who got a little too touchy-feely, and as Derek sorts it out, he can feel eyes on him, watching him. Derek ignores it - he gets stared at a lot; people don’t like cops - until he’s finished writing out a court summons for both patron and dancer, and then he looks up.

It’s the male dancer from before; he’s sitting at a stool further down the bar, his chin propped on his hand as he stares at Derek. Once he sees Derek looking at him, he smiles, pats the stool next to him. Derek frowns and looks around uneasily, but no one else is looking at him or the dancer. He approaches cautiously and doesn’t sit, trying not to let his gaze drift below shoulder-level; the dancer’s shirtless again, his nipples peaked in the air conditioned air of the club. “Can I help you?” Derek asks stiffly.

“I dunno,” the dancer drawls, idly stirring the drink in front of him. Derek refuses to watch his long fingers. “Maybe I can help you. You look a little tense.”

“I am not a customer,” Derek says sharply, jabbing a pointed finger toward the badge on his chest.

“Mm,” the dancer says ambivalently. “But you want to be, don’t you? I remember the last time you came in. You watched me.”

Derek decides to ignore this, mostly because it’s true and he has no excuse. Instead he says, “How old are you?” He’s got his suspicions; the dancer’s got a soft face, no facial hair.

The dancer’s not alarmed by the question; instead, he smiles at Derek, his eyes dropping half-closed, a sultry note in his voice when he purrs, “However old you want me to be, Daddy.”

Derek feels like he’s been punched in the chest; completely thrown and trying to cover his confused arousal, he snaps, “ID, _now.”_

The dancer rolls his eyes but waves at the bartender, who digs around under the counter before producing a wallet, which he hands to the dancer. The dancer then plucks a card from the wallet and hands it to Derek, who glares down at it. The card is a driver’s license and it tells him that the dancer is one Stiles Stilinski and he’s - “You’re twenty-one?” Derek says skeptically.

“Yup,” Stiles replies, popping the ‘p’ like bubblegum. He leans over, snags the card out of Derek’s fingers. “So how about that dance, huh?”

“I - ” But before Derek can fumble through an excuse, his radio crackles to life, calling him to a disturbance on the other side of town. He flees gratefully, ignoring the disappointed look from Stiles that follows him out the door.

-

Later, at the station, Derek runs Stiles’ name through the system. No results. He swears under his breath; the license must have been a fake. He should have known better with a name like _Stiles_.

-

Derek gets called to the local high school a couple weeks later to investigate a vandalism case; some idiot’s been spray painting swastikas on the bleachers. He’s standing in the hall talking to the principal, students flowing around them while they head to class, when Derek spots a familiar face in the crowd: Stiles. Stiles sees him at the same exact moment, and all the color leaves his face.

 _“Hey!”_ Derek says sharply, startling the principal. He grabs at Stiles’ arm, but Stiles ducks and takes off down the hallway, leaving Derek glaring after him.

“Did Mr. Stilinski do something, officer?” the principal asks, sounding confused.

Derek gives him a sharp look. “He’s a student here?”

“Yes,” the principal says, still perplexed. “He’s a senior - one of our brightest.”

“How old is he?” Derek asks, his brow furrowing deeper.

“I - I’d have to check,” the principal tells him, frowning himself. “Seventeen or so, I suppose. You think he’s the vandal?”

“No,” Derek says bluntly, turning his head to look down the hallway where Stiles had disappeared. “His real name is Stiles?”

“I believe that’s a nickname,” the principal says. “What - ”

“I’m going to need that name,” Derek says grimly.

-

Back at the station, Derek types the unpronounceable collection of letters that is Stiles’ real name into the system, and this time he gets a hit, Stiles’ real identity laid out before him. The pit of Derek’s stomach drops when he reads Stiles’ birth date, and he makes himself do the math twice before it sticks; Stiles _is_ only seventeen. What the _hell_ is he doing working as a stripper? (And, Derek wonders uncomfortably, what the hell is wrong with _him_ that he’s so attracted to Stiles?)

It just gets worse the more he finds out; looking up Stiles’ parents, he finds that Stiles’ mom died a decade ago, and Stiles’ father - Derek sucks in a sharp breath. He used to be the sheriff until he wrecked his car during a pursuit of a suspect; he’s been in a coma ever since. That was two years ago, before Derek transferred to the city; he hadn’t recognized the name, but realizes now that he’s heard some of the other cops talking about him.

“Fuck,” Derek breathes.

-

The moment Derek gets off duty that night, he drives to the strip club. No one gives him a second glance when he strides in in civilian clothes, and he twists his head around, looking for Stiles. His lip curls when he spots him, giving a lapdance to a middle-aged man. Derek strides toward him furiously, grabbing him by the arm and jerking him upright. Stiles squawks indignantly, arms flailing as he tries to find his balance, and the guy he was grinding on says “Hey, I paid for that!”

Derek growls, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket and flashing his badge at the man. “He’s seventeen,” he snaps.

The man raises his hands defensively. “I didn’t know that!”

“Fuck you!” Stiles spits, struggling against Derek’s grip. “I’m trying to work, dipshit!”

“Shut up,” Derek hisses, pushing him toward the door. _“Outside.”_

Stiles goes mutinously limp, forcing Derek to half drag, half carry him out the door. “You arresting me?” he says moodily.

“Why are you doing this?” Derek asks sharply.

Stiles pulls himself upright, glowering at Derek. “None of your fucking business.”

“Your principal told me you’re one of his brightest students,” Derek presses. “So why? Is someone making you do this?”

Stiles scowls. “No one’s making me do anything.”

Derek watches him for a long moment, waits for him to explain himself, and when he doesn’t, he says, gentling his tone, “I know about your dad.”

Stiles’ face twists furiously. “Fuck you,” he snarls. “You’ve got no fucking right - You - ” He looks like he’s about to throw himself at Derek, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You have no fucking idea what I’m dealing with!”

“Yes I do,” Derek tells him quietly, and Stiles blinks, thrown off guard. “I lost my entire family when I was seventeen. I know _exactly_ what you’re going through.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything; he clenches his jaw and looks at his feet, hands still clenched angrily at his sides.

“Stiles,” Derek says patiently. “There are plenty of other jobs. Why this one?”

Stiles grits his teeth before spitting out, “Because nothing else pays this much. Dad’s got medical bills, there’s the mortgage, and I’ve got to save up for college - I can work here three nights a week and make more than I would in two weeks anywhere else.” Stiles glares at him. “I’m not stupid. I don’t get naked, I don’t let people touch my dick. The minute I can leave for college, I’m done.”

“You can’t work here,” Derek tells him. “It’s illegal; you have to be at least eighteen.”

“So fucking arrest me then,” Stiles says furiously. “I don’t give a shit anymore; it’s not like my dad’s ever waking up.”

“I’m not on duty,” Derek says quietly. “I’m not going to arrest you.”

“Then what the fuck is your deal?” Stiles demands. Derek thought he might calm down when he heard that, but he’s just getting angrier. “Are you one of those fucking creeps who wants to _buy_ me? Or do you think you need to _save_ me?”

“It’s my job to look out for people,” Derek says.

“You just said you’re not on duty,” Stiles points out scathingly. “If you’re not going to arrest me, then fuck off. I’ve got money to make.”

“Stiles,” Derek tries, frustrated, but Stiles spins and heads back inside, his shoulders tight with anger. Derek doesn’t know what to do. He knows what the law tells him he _should_ do, but that doesn’t mean it’s the _right_ thing to do. If he hauls Stiles in, who knows what sort of damage the system will inflict upon him when he’s already in a rough place without his dad? If he’s really saving money for college - well. Derek was seventeen and grieving too, once, and if he hadn’t had the money his parents had left him, he doesn’t know what he might have done to help himself. Derek doesn’t think Stiles is stupid; he’s not going to stick around in this job any longer than he has to. Maybe he’ll give him that; he’ll come in every week or so until Stiles is eighteen, check in on him. He won’t intervene unless it looks like Stiles is in trouble.

So that’s what he does. The first couple of weeks, Stiles won’t even look in his direction, still angry at him, and Derek doesn’t stick around long, only pops in long enough to take stock of him. He doesn’t want to see more than he has to, anyway; Stiles’ dancing _does_ something to him, pulls at something in his gut that makes him hot all over.

It’s worse when Stiles seems to forgive him, because suddenly he’s making eye contact, and Derek can’t _handle_ it when Stiles is looking right at him and his hips are moving so sinfully smooth against that pole. It’s not right - it’s _not_ right; Stiles is seventeen, and Derek desperately focuses on this fact and any other boner-killer he can think of it, but it doesn’t work. Like a moth to the flame, he finds himself lingering longer and longer. None of the other dancers bother him - he’s barely aware there _are_ other dancers, but it’s like they know he’s only there for Stiles. Maybe they do know; they can probably read people just as well as he can - or better.

The bartender offers him a beer one day. “On the house,” he says. “People behave when you’re around. They know you’re a cop, uniform or not.”

Derek plucks absently at his shirt, plain gray cotton - he hasn’t come in during his shift for weeks - and he actually _sits_ for once, which is more than he should do, he knows, but a beer can’t hurt. Probably. Stiles is across the room, giving someone a lap dance; he’s got his back to Derek, but Derek still stares at his broad shoulders, wonders what his skin tastes like. He only gets five sips into his beer before Stiles finishes with his client; when he turns around and sees Derek sitting at the bar, his whole face lights up and that - that’s not fair. It’s not fair, and it’s not good, because Stiles is heading his way.

Derek bails. He abandons his beer and hurries for the exit, and he can see Stiles is going to attempt to cut him off, but he puts on a burst of speed and makes it out the grungy front door. Stiles yells something after him. Derek pointedly doesn’t hear it.

(It sounds a lot like “I’m going to get you eventually!”)

(Derek has an uncomfortable feeling he will.)

-

Stiles finally catches him two weeks later. Derek’s coming out of the bathroom, which looks as though it hasn’t been cleaned since the place first opened, and when he pushes the door open - with his elbows, so he doesn’t have to touch anything - Stiles is standing there, a smile curving his lips. Derek freezes.

“Hi,” Stiles says. He’s wearing a shirt - for once - but no pants, just tight, _tight_ briefs that show off the curve of his ass.

Derek turns his eyes toward the ceiling. “Hi,” he tells the ceiling.

“Do I _really_ make you that uncomfortable?” Stiles asks. He sounds delighted. Derek feels him take a step closer. “Do you think about me? Jerk off to me? Fuck your hand and pretend it’s my ass?”

 _“Stiles,”_ Derek hisses, jerking his eyes away from the ceiling to glare at him.

Stiles just grins. “That’s not a no,” he says. “Is it true? I’d let you fuck me, you know.”

“Stiles,” Derek says again, gritting his teeth. His dick throbs. “Stop. I _can’t.”_

“Sure you can,” Stiles says, stepping in close, his hips swaying. He slides his hand up Derek’s chest. “Today’s my birthday.”

Derek goes very still. “Your birthday.”

“Mmhmm,” Stiles hums, leaning into Derek. Derek feels like his heart’s about to escape from his chest, it’s pounding so hard. “Eighteen. I can show you my id _-_ my _real_ id - if you don’t believe me.”

“Stiles,” Derek says for a third time, weaker, and then stops protesting entirely when Stiles leans forward and kisses him. He may be young, but there’s nothing timid about the way he kisses - he kisses like it’s a fight and he’s determined to win, one of his hands curling in the collar of Derek’s shirt, tugging him in closer, closer. Derek can’t even think straight, intoxicated by Stiles; he wants to devour him, wants to pull him to the floor and make him scream - and Derek has a feeling that Stiles would make the most _beautiful_ noises when he’s being fucked - but somewhere, dimly, it registers that he’s making out with a stripper in the back hallway of a strip club, and he pulls himself back reluctantly.

Stiles won’t let him go far, his hand still gripping Derek’s collar, his eyes hooded and hungry. “Something wrong?”

“I - ” Derek’s eyes flicker down the hallway, to where neon lights flash and music booms in the main room, loud voices drifting down to them.

“Hm,” Stiles says, picking up on Derek’s feelings. “C'mere, then,” he continues, and tugs Derek off down the hallway, jerking open an unmarked door and pulling Derek in after him.

It’s a mop closet, just barely big enough for them and a shelving unit full of cleaning supplies, and the whole space smells like bleach and mold, but Derek doesn’t really care; Stiles is pushing him back against the door, attacking his mouth, hips grinding sinfully against Derek’s. Derek’s can finally touch him, can grope at the ass he’s been dreaming about for weeks, and Stiles is so perfect, arching into his hands with a full-throated groan that has Derek swearing.

He wants so much - he wants to bite bruises into Stiles’ creamy skin, wants to bend him over and fuck him senseless, wants to suck him off, take him so deep in his throat that he gags. But before he can do any more of this than bite down on Stiles’ shoulder, Stiles is slithering to his knees and pulling down Derek’s jeans and -

“Fuck,” Derek snarls, remembering too late that he should keep his voice down. Stiles grins around his teeth and takes him in deeper, blows him just as aggressively as he kisses. All Derek can do is hold on, one hand curled in Stiles’ hair; he’s good at this - too good for how young he is, and Derek almost wants to ask him how, but he doesn’t, doesn’t want to think about Stiles with other people.

When Derek comes, Stiles closes his eyes and takes him in so deep Derek thinks the tip of his dick’s touching the back of Stiles’ throat, and Derek almost goes cross-eyed at how good it feels, his thighs shaking as Stiles slowly pulls off him, licking him clean before neatly tucking him back in his pants, zipping his jeans back up.

He pulls Stiles to his chest when he stands, kissing him distractedly while he gets his hand down those tight tight briefs and jerks him off, Stiles groaning into his mouth when he comes.

Derek leans back against the door, satisfied, as he watches Stiles dig around the shelves for a paper towel so Derek can wipe his hand off. “Thanks,” he says, when Stiles hands him one.

“Thank _you,”_ Stiles says, readjusting his briefs. There are wet splotches on the front of them, but he doesn’t seem to care. “I gotta get back on the floor.”

“Right,” Derek says, his mind fuck-stupid. “Sure.”

They step out into the hallway and Stiles leans in close, popping a quick and filthy kiss to Derek’s lips. “See you around,” he says, almost purrs.

“Happy birthday,” Derek says dazedly, and Stiles grins, gives him a little wave as he disappears onto the main floor.

-

It’s not until a couple of hours later that Derek begins to realize what he’s done. He has, essentially, stalked a guy - a _kid_ \- for _weeks_ , and then hooked up with him in the seediest place in town. He is a terrible human being and, worse, a terrible police officer. How could anyone in the community ever trust him if this got out?

Derek feels so shitty about it - and worse, because he also thinks about how much he _enjoyed_ it - that he stays away from the strip club for almost a month. When he does finally go back - in uniform this time, so Stiles can’t get any ideas (not like this worked the first few times, but whatever, it makes him feel better) - he doesn’t spot Stiles out on the floor, but the bartender waves him over.

“Your boy’s gone,” he tells Derek, when Derek leans up against the bar.

“Gone?” Derek repeats blankly.

“Gone,” the bartender confirms. “Quit a couple weeks ago. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen; he kneed an old guy in the balls and then stormed out.”

“…huh,” Derek says slowly. He’s not sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved; he doesn’t think he did anything _technically_ illegal, but he’s still got a moral quandary on his hands, so if Stiles is not longer around to tempt him, it’s probably for the best.

Derek stops going to the strip club after that - no reason to, unless Stiles is there, or he gets sent there on a call, which doesn’t happen. After a couple of months, he doesn’t really think about it anymore, except for the occasional jerk-off session where he dreams about Stiles’ mouth on him, thinks about what it might have been like if they’d gone farther. Other than that, he does his job, goes to department activities, goes home and sleeps. He dates a guy for a while, but it doesn’t pan out - nothing specific, just general incompatibility.

Four months after the last time Derek sees Stiles, he’s reading the news when he reads an article headlined _Former Beacon County sheriff wakes from coma._ Derek doesn’t make the connection to Stiles until he reads the name _Stilinski,_ and even then it takes a moment for him to realize why it sounds so familiar. When he does, he just feels…relieved. For Stiles, that is. He wouldn’t wish losing both parents - or one parent - on his worst enemy. He hopes Stiles’ father has a good recovery, but doesn’t think about it any further; at this point, Stiles seems more like a distant acquaintance, and he wishes him the best.

A month or so after that, Derek sitting at his desk in the precinct catching up on paperwork when two people come into the building. He doesn’t pay them any mind at first, because he’s not at the front desk, so it’s not his duty to see if they need any help. He _does_ notice when the captain comes out of his office to greet them, and when he looks up he sees a middle-aged man with sandy blonde hair leaning on a cane and - Stiles. Stiles looks the most normal Derek’s ever seen him, dressed in jeans and a gray hoodie zipped over a plaid shirt, his hair shorter than the last time Derek saw him. Everything about him is so different; the way he stands, the expression on his face.

Stiles doesn’t notice him at first; Derek keeps his head down, but watched out of the corner of his eyes. Some of his fellow officers must know the sheriff, because they get to their feet to go over and talk to him. Derek can’t hear their conversation, but his palm go a little sweaty when the captain starts bringing the sheriff and Stiles around the office, introducing them to everyone else. Stiles notices him then, his head swinging around to observe the office, and for a moment he still, his face unreadable - and then he _grins._

“Fuck,” Derek mumbles under his breath, his cheeks heating at the captain swings his way and leads them over. _Fuck, fuck._ What’s he going to say? What’s _Stiles_ going to say?

“Derek,” the captain says. “This is John Stilinski. You might have heard John’s the former county sheriff. He’s been in a coma the past two years. John, this is Derek Hale. One of our best officers.”

Derek face goes even warmer at the praise, his eyes sliding sideways to Stiles, who looks incredibly smug. “Derek,” John says genially, holding out a hand for Derek to shake. “Hale, huh? I remember your parents - I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, his mouth dry. He feels like he’s drowning in nervous sweat - is it as obvious as it feels? “I - I hope your recovery’s going well.”

“Well as can be expected,” John says, smiling ruefully. “Going to be a couple long months of physical therapy before I’m off this cane. Luckily, I have my son to help me out - this is Stiles,” he adds.

Stiles grins wickedly. “We’ve met, Dad,” he says, and Derek gives him a horrified look. “I got a flat tire a couple months ago and Derek helped me out.”

“Thank you for that,” John says to Derek. Then he adds with a wink, “I’m going to try to get re-elected, and if I do, I might need some new deputies. If you’re as good as your captain says, I might have to poach you.”

“Now, now,” Derek’s captain says reproachfully, while Derek’s face burns, and Stiles looks delighted. He and John move on, but Stiles lingers by Derek’s desk.

“What happened to going to college?” Derek asks stiffly, trying to be professional.

“It’s the winter holiday,” Stiles replies, looking smug. “I’m taking next semester off to help my dad.”

“Oh,” Derek says. “Good. Well, I have - ”

“We’re having a barbecue in a couple of weeks,” Stiles says innocently, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “For my dad. You should come.”

“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” Derek says.

“Probably not,” Stiles agrees, his voice dropping lower. “Probably wouldn’t be appropriate to give you a tour of my bedroom, either.”

Derek’s eyes dart to Stiles’ face, his breath skipping when he sees the look on Stiles’ face; he _knows_ that look. “You - ”

“Dad’s probably going to be a while,” Stiles continues, nodding over toward where his father’s chatting with a circle of officers. “Want to give me a tour of the precinct? Maybe - ” His voice drops so low Derek can barely hear it. “Maybe find another closet?”

Derek swallows hard, his eyes skipping around the room. “I’m not a very good tour guide.”

“That’s all right,” Stiles says, smiling lazily. “I’m sure you can make it up in other ways.”


	90. Chapter 90

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** So I know you wrote something similar recently, but because you do it so damn well, more mpreg and angst please?
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** Teen
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Multiple POV, mpreg, omega!Derek
> 
> **WARNING:** depression, unwanted pregnancy, mentions of abortion

The new temp hates Stiles. 

Stiles is used to being disliked; it’s a hazard of his personality, abrasive and impatient and too intense. He’s gotten better since he was a kid - mellowed out in his old age, as Scott likes to say - but some people still don’t like him. Stiles can understand that; unlike Scott, who doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, Stiles has many mean bones, and, on the whole, doesn’t like all that many people. Whatever; you can’t be friends with everyone, nor does Stiles _want_ to be friends with everyone.

Still, he’s not sure what he’s done to make the new temp hate him, and it kind of bothers him. Their first interaction had gone pretty well; one of the ladies from HR had brought Derek around the floor to introduce him to people, and when she’d brought him to Stiles’ cubicle, Stiles had nodded politely and said “Hey, nice to meet you,” and Derek had nodded back. No friction there, as far as he could tell. 

Their second interaction is where things seem to have gone wrong. They’d both been in the break room at the same time, Stiles loading a cup of coffee up with sugar, Derek making a cup of tea, when Stiles had nodded toward Derek’s stomach and asked, “So do you know whether it’s a boy or a girl?” He wasn’t just blindly guessing about Derek being pregnant all right? He’d been raised with the rule that it wasn’t okay to ask someone if they were pregnant unless there was actively a baby coming out of them, so he wasn’t being a jerk there - he could be an asshole sometimes, but he wasn’t trying to be _rude;_ the lady from HR had said it herself, explaining upon introducing Derek that, “He’ll be here for just a couple months until he goes on omega paternity leave.” Derek had grimaced a little when she said it, so maybe it was a faux pas on her part, but it wasn’t a secret, all right? 

But anyway, as soon as Stiles asked, Derek’s face had gone flat, and he’d dropped his spoon in the sink with a clatter that made Stiles wince. “That,” Derek had said coldly, “is none of your _fucking_ business,” and he’d stormed out of the break room. And all right, Derek had a point; it wasn’t really any of Stiles’ business, but he seriously hadn’t meant anything by it - he’d just wanted to make conversation, and now Derek won’t even make eye contact with him, let alone _talk_ to him. So, okay, maybe that’s why Derek hates him, but Stiles really wasn’t trying to be a jerk. 

And now, because he’s stubborn, he’s determined to make Derek like him - not only because he wants to prove that he’s _not_ an asshole (or at least, not actively _trying_ to be, for once), or because Derek is like jaw-droppingly hot, but also because the dude seems legitimately lonely. Stiles can see Derek’s cubicle from his; it’s at an angle across a couple other cubicles, so he has a perfect side view of his face, and Derek’s expression never seems to waver from a tired frown, whether he’s looking at his computer or talking on the phone. Maybe it’s not just Stiles he hates, because he doesn’t seem to talk to anyone else in the office, either, apart from their supervisor, but he looks fucking miserable, and Stiles had thought that being pregnant was supposed to be like a joyous thing. 

One day, after most of the floor’s gone home, Stiles saunters past Derek’s empty space and finds it devoid of anything personal - no photos, no stupid knickknacks, not even his own coffee mug - he just uses one of the ones from the break room. Stiles knows he’s just a temp, but when he looks at the other temp’s space, she’s got photos, a festive holiday garland around the top of her cubicle walls. The only thing in Derek’s cubicle that even shows that it’s occupied is a few post-it notes stuck to the bottom of the monitor, log-ins and passwords noted in Derek’s neat handwriting, plus one that says _doctor’s appt, 12/6 @ 5:15._

“Are you obsessing?” Scott asks him over a beer a couple nights later. 

“No,” Stiles says guiltily. “I just - I feel bad for him. He looks so sad all the time. You think he’s got a partner?” Stiles has looked for a wedding ring, but if Derek’s married, he doesn’t wear one. Stiles knows you don’t need to be married to have a baby, but still. If Derek’s got someone, there’s no sign of that either.

“You don’t know what’s going on in his life,” Scott points out. “Don’t get pushy.”

“I’m not,” Stiles sighs. “I won’t. Kind of hard to be pushy when he refuses to even make eye contact with me.”

Stiles can’t help but keep on watching Derek, though; he knows it’s stupid to be so concerned about someone who is essentially a stranger, but he finds himself worried about Derek like, as a person. Does he have friends? Family? Someone to take him to his doctor’s appointments? Stiles knows that it’s absolutely none of his business, but no one should be alone, especially not when they’re pregnant; even Scott and Kira, who are like the perfect couple, struggled when Kira got pregnant, and Scott told Stiles several times how important having their network of friends and family was to support them. Stiles is worried that Derek doesn’t have any of that; he always looks so _tired_ , the corners of his mouth permanently downturned. He seems to take care of himself - Stiles has seen him in the break room eating a perfectly balanced and healthy lunch, but he eats it with no sign of enjoyment on his face. Does he _ever_ smile? (Stiles can’t help but think that Derek would have an amazing smile; how could he not, with that perfect jaw and pale eyes? Stiles desperately wants to see it.)

He’s getting coffee at a shop one morning when a baker brings a rack of heavily frosted chocolate cupcakes out from the kitchen. “I’ll take one of those too,” Stiles says, before he can even think about it. At work, he waits for Derek to leave his desk, then scoots over and leaves the cupcake by Derek’s mouse. Several people watch him do it, curious, but Stiles ignores them and hurries back to his desk, waiting eagerly for Derek to return. When Derek comes back, he sits in his chair and then Stiles watches his head tilt downward when he notices the cupcake. _Eat it,_ Stiles thinks furiously. _Fucking enjoy yourself._ Derek’s frozen for a long time, a frown appearing between his eyebrows, and then he lifts his eyes to his screen and goes back to work. Stiles bites back a swear; a couple of the people who watched him leave it turn to give him sympathetic looks. He never sees Derek eat it, and at the end of the day, after Derek’s gone, Stiles can’t help but look in his cubicle; his heart sinks when he sees the cupcake in the trash. “Asshat,” he says to the empty office, dejected.

(“Maybe he doesn’t like chocolate,” Scott suggests. “Try vanilla.”

Stiles does. It sits on Derek’s desk for two weeks before someone - probably a janitor - throws it away.

“Maybe red velvet?” Scott winces.)

-

Before Laura died, she gave Derek a soft plush rabbit when he found out he was pregnant. “More to come,” she’d said, her dark eyes sparkling with joy, and three weeks later she’d died in a car crash. The rabbit is the only gift Derek’s received for the baby, and it hurts to look at; he keeps it closed up in the nursery he’s been too miserable to even think about putting together, all the items he’s purchased but hasn’t assembled yet.

In the time between the fire that killed the rest of their family and Laura dying, Derek went a little wild. He went out a lot, slept around with a lot of different people, which is how he ended up pregnant. He doesn’t know who the father is, and doesn’t particularly care; he wasn’t even planning on keeping the baby until he saw how happy the news made Laura, and after she died, he decided to keep it because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have any family left. It was an emotionally-charged decision he made in the hazy days after Laura’s death; a stupid one, he realizes, after it’s too late to get rid of it. He doesn’t want a baby; in his numb, miserable state he can barely take care of himself. He feels no connection to it, no happiness that it’s coming - his doctor says this happens to some people, but Derek can’t summon any enthusiasm for it.

He hates being pregnant; the moment he began to show, it was like the entire world knew. His personal bubble, once huge and effective, seems to disappear, the swell of his stomach an apparent invitation to strangers to come up and talk to him, ask him invasive questions, to try and _touch_ him. He quickly learns to wear baggy clothes to hide it when he’s out and about, but it’s not always possible when he needs to go to the store after work and he’s in his work clothes, no way to hide it then. It hurts him deep down, that these strangers care more about his baby than he does, but he doesn’t know how to change, how to make himself _want_ to love it. 

Derek doesn’t mean to explode at Stiles specifically; his feelings of frustration and hurt have been building inside of him for months, and Stiles’ innocent question in the break room is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Derek feels a little guilty at how _good_ it feels to snap, how Stiles’ face goes red and embarrassed. He feels in control of himself for the first time in weeks, gets so much done at his desk that even his supervisor comments on it. It’s easy to push all his anger onto Stiles, a stranger; he doesn’t feel bad about ignoring him, even though he’s trying hard to make up. The appearance of the cupcake briefly stimies him, but a swift glance out of the corner of his eye shows him Stiles watching him eagerly; Derek delights in ignoring him _and_ the cupcake frigidly, only thawing slightly to throw it out at the end of the day. He doesn’t bother touching the next one, even though it dries out and simultaneously begins growing mold. 

Derek doesn’t want a friend. He doesn’t want a baby. He wants Laura and his parents and the rest of his family back. He does what he’s supposed to - eats well, takes his vitamins, gets regular check-ups at the doctors - because he figures that he owes it to the child; however unwillingly he’s bringing it into this world, it’ll be healthy. Except - except, it’s not. 

He’s working late one night - and so is Stiles, to his displeasure; they’re the only two people in the office - when the pain starts. It begins as a dull ache in his side, almost at his back, so he doesn’t immediately connect it with the baby, and he successfully ignores it for a while. When it starts to hurt more, he gets to his feet, and on the pretense of making a cup of tea, takes a slow walk around the office, pressing his hand to his stomach with a grimace. He has to stop and lean up against the wall outside the break room and breathe, sweat prickling at his forehead. _Fuck,_ he thinks. This is - not good.

Derek tries to go back to work; he sits at his computer and breathes slowly through his mouth, but he can’t focus on the screen. His stomach hurts - hurts really fucking bad, and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s scared, he realizes; he moved to this city after Laura died in an attempt to find a clean start, but all it means is that he’s completely alone in a new place. He doesn’t know where the hospital is, or how to get there - and he takes the bus because it’s easier than driving, but he doesn’t know what bus he’ll need to take to get to the hospital, or how often the bus runs at this time of night. _Fuck._

Someone clears their throat nearby, and Derek looks up to see Stiles standing in front of him, leaning over the side of his cubicle. “What?” Derek asks harshly. 

Stiles scratches at his neck anxiously, his eyes flickering over Derek’s face and then landing somewhere around the back of his computer. “Uh. Are you - are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Derek grits out, and taps pointedly on his keyboard, mashes nonsense into an empty email so it looks like he’s busy: _laksn sdfjljasdf._

“Are you sure?” Stiles presses. “I just - I know it’s none of my business, but you’re looking kind of pale, and you keep - ”

“I. Am. _Fine,”_ Derek snaps, and then his body betrays him by sending a sharp stab of pain right up the middle of him and his eyes snap shut as he hisses in pain, fingers curling against the keyboard. 

“Uh, that’s not fine, dude,” Stiles says. “Do you need to go to the hospital? I can - ”

“I can handle myself!” Derek snarls. He’s sweating all over, uneasy heat prickling under his arms and at the backs of his knees. And then, because Stiles is still staring at him, he gets abruptly to his feet, his chair rolling back and hitting the cubicle wall. Stiles takes a step backward, startled, as Derek says, “See?”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, unimpressed. “Congrats on standing. Please let me take you to the hospital.”

“I don’t need your help,” Derek retorts, lips thinning as another sharp stab of pain rolls through him. 

“I can’t leave you here,” Stiles says. “If you die, and I could have helped you, I’m pretty sure they’ll fire me.” Derek glares at him, curling his shaking hands against his pant legs, and doesn’t move. Stiles switches tactics. “Come on,” he says, voice softer. “Don’t you want to make sure your baby is - ”

 _“Don’t,”_ Derek seethes. _“Don’t_ talk about it. I’ll go with you, just - don’t fucking talk to me.”

Stiles throws his hands up into the air, but he doesn’t say a word, waiting for Derek to pull on his coat before they head out of the building. Derek’s secretly relieved; he’s not sure he would have been able to wait much longer for a bus, even if he _had_ been able to figure out which one to take. As it is, the pain’s getting worse; he folds his arms over his stomach and focuses on trying to breathe as Stiles navigates the city streets. Traffic’s heavy even at this time of night; they keep getting stuck at red lights, and Derek’s beginning to edge toward panic.

Stiles remains silent, but he keeps giving Derek these worried glances, and Derek would be annoyed, but he can’t think about anything except - he’s scared. For the first time, he feels something for the baby growing inside him, and it’s fear he’s going to lose it. He doesn’t even know what gender the baby is - he’s told the doctor he wants it to be a surprise, but really it’s because he hasn’t been able to summon the ability to care. Now he wonders what’s wrong with him; he’s fucking five months along and he refuses to learn the gender of his own child. He’s such a fucking failure.

Stiles touches his arm and Derek almost jumps out of his skin, staring with wide eyes at the place where Stiles is touching him. He looks at Stiles; Stiles’ eyes are on the road, but his hand is warm and solid against Derek’s arm, and…and Derek can’t remember the last time he was touched by another human being - aside from the people who kept trying to touch his stomach. He doesn’t understand why it’s Stiles, of all people, but - he’s grateful. Grateful not to be alone right now.

When they get to the hospital, Stiles doesn’t even ask if Derek wants him to come in; he just finds a parking spot and walks in with Derek, one hand partially raised like he’s ready to steady Derek if need be. Derek’s seen to right away, and the last thing he sees before he’s whirled off to an examining room is Stiles settling down in a chair in the waiting room, looking like he’s ready for the long haul. For just a moment, even as a nurse asks him questions about how he’s feeling, Derek lets himself wonder what it’d be like to share this pregnancy with someone who cares about him. Someone who loves him.

-

Derek is gone for three hours. Stiles waits at the hospital for all of it, fiddling with his phone. He’s not sure why he does it, because Derek certainly doesn’t like him, except Stiles knows he wouldn’t want to be alone in a situation like this, and he can’t seem to make himself leave.

When Derek finally reemerges, a nurse at his side, he’s pale and still a little shiny with sweat, his arms crossed over his stomach. The baby’s fine, the nurse tells Stiles; she seems to think he’s the other father, and Stiles is too embarrassed to correct her. Derek’s cheeks go pink, and he won’t look at Stiles until they get back out to the car. 

“Is everything going to be okay?” Stiles asks carefully, as he drives toward Derek’s place, the address entered into his phone’s GPS.

“It’s fine,” Derek says quietly, rubbing one his big hands over his stomach. Everything’s quiet for a while, traffic lights flooding the car with green, then yellow light. Then Derek abruptly says, “They did an ultrasound. It’s a girl.”

“Really?” Stiles says enthusiastically. “That’s great, dude. Congratulations.”

Derek doesn’t say anything. When Stiles glances over at him, Stiles can see the corners of his mouth are turned down, the familiar look of misery back on his face. “Hey,” he says uncertainly. “Is there anyone I can call for you? You shouldn’t be alone.”

“No,” Derek says, turning his face to the window. Stiles waits for some kind of follow up, but he gets nothing. 

Derek lives on a quiet development in a suburb in a small one-story house with a big front lawn. It’s the kind of place Stiles has always wanted to buy, nothing too big or extravagant, but he can’t afford the down payment on anything. He’s surprised Derek can afford it on a temp salary but then, as Scott had said, he doesn’t know what’s going on with Derek’s life. 

There’s a car in the driveway but no lights on inside; still, as Stiles pulls up behind it, he expects the front door to open, Derek’s mythical partner to come outside to greet them. No one does, and Stiles supposes he should have expected that; if Derek had anyone, they would have come to the hospital, not let Derek be chauffeured around by a stranger. 

Derek moves like a zombie, stiffly unfolding himself from the car and tottering up the driveway. He doesn’t invite Stiles in, but Stiles follows anyway, worried about Derek making it all right, and also because he’s a nosy motherfucker. Derek doesn’t even seem to notice him step inside behind him, and Stiles looks around with wide eyes; it looks like a home from the outside, but inside it’s a jumble of sparse furniture and half unpacked boxes, no decorations on the walls, no human touches at all. Did he just move in? Stiles tries to remember how long ago Derek started at the office. A month? Two? However long it’d been, it didn’t look like a very comfortable place, especially not for a pregnant man. It looks like somewhere someone comes to sleep, not live, which, well, knowing what he knows of Derek, seems pretty accurate.

“Derek,” Stiles says slowly. “Are you okay?” He doesn’t mean after tonight’s events; he means in general, day to day.

Derek stands in the middle of the entryway, his back to Stiles. He’s silent for a long, long moment, and then without turning he says, “My sister died. Three months ago.”

Stiles winces. “Shit,” he says. “I’m sorry. You guys were close? What about the rest of your family?”

“They’re all dead too,” Derek says. He sighs. “House fire. Year and a half ago.”

“Jesus,” Stiles says softly. “That’s awful. I’m sorry, Derek.”

Derek glances at him, and Stiles is worried by the flatness of his expression; he looks _dead_ , or like he wants to be dead. Stiles can’t even imagine what it’d feel like to lose all the people closest to you so suddenly and tragically - he’d lost his mom as a kid, and that had been hard enough - but Derek looks like he’s giving up, and it doesn’t matter to Stiles that they’re still basically strangers, or that it’s none of his business; he’s worried Derek’s going to do something stupid.

“Hey,” Stiles says carefully. “You want to stay at my place tonight? We could, I dunno, watch a movie or something.” He doesn’t even have a spare bedroom or anything, but he’d gladly let Derek sleep in the bed and he can take the couch; he just doesn’t think Derek should be alone.

“No,” Derek says flatly. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” Stiles presses. “It’s no bother - “

“No,” Derek says again, voice colder, swinging around to face him now. “I think you should leave.”

“I - oh,” Stiles says, deflating. “You want a ride to work tomorrow?”

“I’ll be fine,” Derek says icily, folding his arms over his chest. He doesn’t say anything else, and Stiles gets the hint, though he still drags his feet over leaving, hoping Derek will change his mind. Derek doesn’t; he remains silent, watching Stiles step back toward the door. 

“Well,” Stiles says, pulling the door open. “Um. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess. I hope you feel better.”

He thinks he sees Derek’s expression flicker before the door closes, but he’s probably just imagining it.

-

Derek’s at work the next day, to Stiles’ relief. Derek keeps his head down, like usual, so Stiles isn’t sure if he’s avoiding him or not - but he still keeps away for most of the day, waiting until late that afternoon to pause by Derek’s cubicle on his way to get a cup of coffee in the break room. He doesn’t say anything at first, waiting a little anxiously to see if Derek’s going to look at him, and after a moment Derek does, albeit briefly, his eyes flickering to Stiles and back to his screen, but he stops typing, which Stiles takes as a sign that it’s okay to talk. 

“Uh,” he says, keeping his voice low. There’s no privacy in the office, really, but he’s pretty sure Derek doesn’t want people knowing what happened. “Are you feeling okay today?”

Derek’s silent for a moment, his eyes flickering around the office before he quietly says, “I’m fine.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Um, good. That’s good.” He shifts around uneasily, not sure what else to say, but he’s unwilling to drop what could be the start of an actual _conversation_.

While he dithers, however, Derek surprises him by glancing at him again from under his dark eyelashes and saying, “Thank you.”

“Huh? For what?” Stiles asks dumbly, caught off guard.

“For helping me,” Derek says, sounding like he’s gritting his teeth. 

“Right,” Stiles says, feeling his face go red. “Right, sorry. It was no big deal.”

“Yes it was,” Derek says quietly. He looks down at his keyboard, the corners of his mouth turning down. “As you’ve probably figured out, I don’t exactly have anyone to go to for help.”

Stiles blinks, startled by Derek’s candor - but then, he’d been honest the night before too. “Well,” Stiles says, a little awkwardly. “If you ever need anything, I don’t mind lending a hand.”

Derek looks at him, his brow furrowed, staring at Stiles for so long that Stiles begins to feel markedly embarrassed, but then he surprises Stiles by saying again, very solemnly, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Stiles says automatically. And, feeling that he’s probably pressing his luck - or the edges of Derek’s patience - he lifts his coffee mug significantly and asks, “You want anything?”

Derek gives him another unnervingly long look before he shakes his head slightly. “No,” he says, his gaze returning to his monitor. “Thank you.”

Stiles grins as he heads for the kitchen; it certainly feels like a win.

-

The trip to the hospital rattles Derek’s already low confidence. He hasn’t felt _that_ anxious about the pregnancy, as things have gone generally as well as they could have during the first few months, and he’d done everything he was supposed to. It doesn’t matter to him that it was the beginning of a kidney infection - just the fact that he’d gotten sick, and if Stiles hadn’t been around, he would have been completely fucked, probably would have had to call 911 - it scares him. He struggles to handle the dual realizations that he has absolutely no support system, and that he actually cares if he loses the baby. 

After Stiles has finally left (and there’s another can of worms Derek’s too tired to think about; Stiles’ support that night is _confusing)_ , Derek goes to bed, but he doesn’t go to sleep. He stares up at the ceiling in his comfortable nest of blankets - his bed being the one area of the new house he’s bothered to make his own - and he breathes in and out slowly as he thinks. He realizes, guiltily, that he’s kind of been ignoring that fact that he’s having baby. He’s been treating this like an illness - an illness that he knows he’ll be over in nine months, so he’s been following his treatments - eating well, seeing a doctor, etc. - while refusing to acknowledge that at the end of it, he’ll have a child. 

He _had_ been excited at one point. Not now, and not when he’d first found out, but when he’d told Laura. There’d been that three week period where they’d been making plans - talking about buying a house so there’d be room for all of them together, coming up with names, researching the things he’d need to buy and do to get ready. When Laura died, Derek had scrapped all their plans, all that joy, too hurt by the memory of Laura’s happiness to to deal with it. He’d gone into survival mode, built walls to protect himself - and now he’s shot himself in the foot, because all he’s accomplished is making himself alone and miserable and unprepared. 

Derek looks down at his stomach, at the way his stomach gently stretches his shirt. He puts his hands there, palms flat, fingers spread wide. He hasn’t felt her move yet, but it should be any day now. “I’m sorry,” he tells her unhappily. Not even born and he’s failing her already. He needs to get his fucking life together.

-

When Stiles stops by to talk to him at work the next day, Derek has a brief internal battle with himself. His automatic inclination is to ignore Stiles, because that’s what he’s been doing to everyone for weeks, but then he thinks about how he owes Stiles for the ride to the hospital, and how he’s been pushing everyone away, and how poorly that worked out for him. He doesn’t actually _dislike_ Stiles; Derek’s just been defensive and unfriendly because that’s how he’s been for months - he’s stuck in a groove. It’s hard, forcing himself to talk, but he managed it the night before (too much, really; he’d been feeling weak, and hadn’t meant to tell Stiles about his family), and he manages it now, and after Stiles walks away, Derek feels…all right. Not awesome, but he’d forgotten how it felt to interact with someone.

It’s…kind of nice to know there’s someone in the office he can talk to. He doesn’t go seeking Stiles out, but he’ll nod if they pass each other in the halls, and Stiles usually says hello. One day Stiles, clearly not thinking, asks, “How’s she doing?” and then winces, likely remembering the day Derek had snapped at him. Indeed, it’s hard for Derek not to automatically snap in that moment either, but he draws in a slow breath and says, “She’s good,” and his stomach flips strangely at the way Stiles looks pleased with his response. A couple days later, he’s eating lunch in the break room when Stiles joins him without asking, just plunks himself down at the table and grins before digging into his lunch. Derek doesn’t know what it means; are they friends now?

Derek tries to be better. It’s easier at work, where he can get lost in his work and the background hum of other people’s lives, but when he’s at home, the silence presses in on him, thick and smothering. He feels worthless and overwhelmed; his doctor told him to take things easy after getting the kidney infection, but he’s not sure what that means - all he does is ride the bus to work, where he sits all day. If he takes it any easier, he’ll never leave the house, and if that happens, he thinks he might just wither up into nothing. His doctor also tells him he should take a birthing class, and Derek _knows_ he should, but the fact that he doesn’t have a partner to go with shames him so greatly that he can’t bring himself to sign up.

It’s getting close to Christmas, which is hard too. Derek’s parents used to throw a huge holiday party for all their friends and relatives, and even if Derek’s never been overly attached to the holiday, he always looked forward to the party. He and Laura threw their own last year and it wasn’t the same, but it was still something. There won’t be anything this year, no one to share it with except the tiny thing growing inside him. He can’t find the energy in himself to decorate - fuck, he hasn’t even finished unpacking the house, and it’s been three months already. The nursery sits empty next to his bedroom; the one day he steeled himself to start working on it, he took one step inside and saw the rabbit from Laura sitting in a box, and he’d panicked and abandoned the project. 

The office has a holiday party that he’s invited to, even though he’s a temp, and he only goes because it starts right after work and he can’t sneak out. It’s not much fun; he doesn’t know anyone in the office except Stiles, and he can’t drink, so he mostly stands off to one side of the room, watching his coworkers mingle and laugh and embarrass themselves as they start drinking. He thinks about the party his parents used to throw, the way the house would be full of light and laughter, and misery fills his chest, clawing at his ribs until he has to step outside, the cold night air hurting his cheeks. 

“You okay?”

Derek turns. Stiles is leaning against the wall, a bottle of beer held loosely between his fingers. “I’m fine,” Derek says brusquely. Stiles raises his eyebrows, and Derek sighs. “I don’t like this time of year.”

“I feel you there,” Stiles says, taking a swig of his beer. “Everything feels a little too forced, right? Like people are trying too hard to be happy.”

Derek shrugs. Not his reason, but it’s accurate enough. “I think I’m going to head home,” he says, though the thought of the house, empty and unwelcoming, seems like no better place to be. 

“You sure you don’t want to stick around?” Stiles asks, half grinning. “Two hours in, when people are getting good and drunk - that’s when things get interesting. All the office drama comes to a boiling point. You wouldn’t _believe_ the things people say.”

Derek shakes his head; he’s got no interest in drama. But then he pauses, eyeing Stiles uncertainly. “What do they say about me?”

Stiles’ smile fades. “Nothing important,” he says hurriedly, then winces. “Not that you’re not important, just - I mean, all the ladies in accounting like you. They say you have the tidiest spreadsheets.”

Derek snorts, unamused. So that’s his legacy? Tidy spreadsheets? “Nothing else?” he asks sarcastically. “Nothing about me being knocked up? Nothing about no father in the picture? Nothing about me being a useless, pregnant omega?”

Stiles looks uncomfortable. “I mean, people talk,” he says uneasily. “You don’t talk to anyone, so people - they speculate.”

“And what about you?” Derek challenges. “What do you tell people about me?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says, looking offended. “I’m not - I’d never share the stuff you told me. I wouldn’t do that.”

Derek opens his mouth and then closes it, feeling sick. What the hell is wrong with him? Why’ she always so ready to jump down people’s throats? “Sorry,” he mutters. 

“Whatever,” Stiles says angrily, pulling away from the wall. “Enjoy your night.”

Derek watches him head back inside with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Of course - of course he’d just sabotaged the closest thing to a friendship he had; there’s no one better at ruining his life than he is.

-

Stiles is less pissed than he is hurt; he thought he and Derek had been building a nice sort of work companionship - you couldn’t call it a friendship, but it was something more than associates at this point - and he’s offended by Derek’s insinuation that he’d give away Derek’s secrets for the sake of office gossip. Stiles has a lot of negative attributes, he’ll be the first to admit that, but he’s no blabbermouth. He’s a fucking _vault_.

Derek avoids him at work for a few days - or Stiles avoids him, he’s not sure; maybe it’s mutual - and Stiles tries not to look across the cubicles at him. He’s not needy, for one, and for two, people are starting to notice that they’ve been getting friendlier, especially as Stiles is the only person in the office Derek will actually talk to. Erica in sales had bared her bright white teeth in a savage grin and inclined her head in Derek’s direction when she’d asked, “You hittin’ that?”

Stiles is offended by that too. Derek is handsome, sure, and the minuscule glimpses he’s had of what he thinks is the real Derek paint a portrait of kind but fierce man. But Stiles can also tell that Derek is hurting deeply, and the pregnancy is making him vulnerable; Stiles isn’t about to take advantage of that. There’s no reason they can’t just be friends - even if he _has_ had guilty thoughts about hooking with with Derek, he’s not going to act on anything. 

He wants to say something to Derek, misses their small interactions, but he’s not the one who acted like an asshole; Derek can come to him if he wants to talk, but Stiles isn’t going to initiate anything. Knowing Derek’s reluctance to interact with people, he probably never will, but if he doesn’t, well - that’s Derek’s problem.

To his surprise, though, Derek _does_ apologize. Stiles isn’t sure it’s entirely intentional, because it’s not like Derek actually seeks him out; they just end up being the only two taking the elevator down to the parking garage at the end of the day. Derek stares at his feet at the whole time they’re waiting on the fifth floor for the elevator to arrive, but when they step inside and the doors close, Derek exhales quietly and says, “I’m sorry for what I said.”

Stiles looks over at him; Derek’s facing straight ahead, but his eyes dart over to Stiles and then away. “That was a shitty thing to say,” he says. 

“I know,” Derek says, sounding ashamed. “I’m sorry. I know you never would have said anything.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Well. Thanks for apologizing.”

Derek’s eyes slide over to him and then away again, nodding quickly. Stiles chews at the inside of his cheek, wishing he could wipe that pained look off Derek’s face. 

They don’t speak again until the elevator doors open; Derek steps out ahead of Stiles, but Stiles reaches out, bumping his knuckles against Derek’s arm before he can stride off toward his car. Derek turns to look at him, his brow furrowing. 

“Are you doing anything for Christmas?” Stiles asks him. 

“No,” Derek says, a little defensively. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Why?”

“You want to hang?” Stiles asks. “I’m not doing anything either.”

Derek’s eyebrows rise skeptically high. “You’re not?”

“Nah,” Stiles says cheerfully, pointing at himself. “Lapsed Jew. What do you say?”

Derek still looks confused - and a little suspicious, like he thinks Stiles might be trying to trick him. “Why?” he asks, frowning a little. “Why do you want to hang out?”

“Well,” Stiles says. _I want to know you._ “It’s kind of a shitty time of year to be alone, don’t you think?”

Derek stares at him, his expression unreadable. Finally, after an unbearably long moment of silence, Derek says - albeit grudgingly - “Fine.”

“Awesome!” Stiles says brightly. “My place or yours?”

Derek’s mouth thins. “Mine,” he says, even more grudgingly. 

Stiles grins triumphantly. “Sounds like a plan.”

-

Stiles shows up at Derek’s place around noon on Christmas Day, his arms laden with food and anything else he could think of that might cheer Derek up. He grins when Derek opens the door, even though Derek doesn’t look all that happy to see him; his pale eyes hooded and creased with tiredness, his hair flat on one side like he was asleep. 

“Hey man,” Stiles says cheerfully. “Didn’t forget about me, did you?”

“No,” Derek says, looking unamused. He steps aside to let Stiles in, though, and Stiles gets inside quickly, eager to get a good look at Derek’s house this time. There seem to be less boxes than before, though still no personal touches anywhere. 

Derek gestures him into the kitchen, where Stiles unburdens himself onto the counter as he says, “I didn’t know what you wanted to eat, so I got a mix, that cool?”

“What is that?” Derek asks instead of answer, his brows drawing together as he points at a box that had been underneath all the food, wrapped in shiny silver paper.

“Oh,” Stiles says, his cheeks going warm. He pushes the food out of the way, hefting the box in his hands before offering it to Derek. “It’s a present.”

Derek stares at it, then at Stiles. “I didn’t get you anything,” he says, sounding mystified.

“I didn’t ask for anything,” Stiles retorts. “Anyway, it’s not for you, it’s for her.” He waves the box toward Derek’s stomach. 

Derek frowns, but after a moment, he takes the box out of Stiles’ hands, staring down at it like it’s a piece of alien technology.

“You can open it,” Stiles gently goads. It’s nothing special, just some onesies and soft toys he’d picked up from Target, but he figures Derek probably hasn’t received that much by way of gifts, so he thought it’d be a nice gesture. Now, watching Derek peel off the wrapping paper, he’s not so sure about it; Derek’s lips are tight, eyebrows drawn together. Is he pissed? 

Stiles, anxious now, watches Derek open the box, watches his eyebrows rise in surprise when he sees the objects inside, watches him gently touch one of the onesies - it’s a soft green, covered in sheep. For a moment, Derek’s face goes soft, his pale eyes hazy. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “You didn’t need to do this.”

“I know,” Stiles says, smiling faintly. “That’s the point. Merry Christmas.”

Derek’s face hardens again, that familiar unhappy mask slipping back into position. He sets the box on the counter and asks, “What did you want to do?”

“I dunno,” Stiles says with a shrug. “If you’ve got a TV, we could watch a movie or something. Or,” he adds, looking around the half unpacked kitchen, “want me to give you a hand unpacking?”

“That’s not what you came over here for,” Derek says.

“I didn’t have any plan,” Stiles tells him, smiling lopsidedly. “C'mon, what’s more Christmasy than opening boxes?”

For a moment, Derek stares at him, and Stiles thinks he’s almost about to smile - but then he just shrugs and says, kind of helplessly, “If that’s what you want to do.”

“I do,” Stiles says, bending down to peer into the nearest box. “Where do you want mugs?”

They spend the afternoon unpacking Derek’s boxes; when the kitchen’s finished, they simply move on to the dining room, and then into the living room. They don’t talk much, except for when Stiles asks where something should go. He hopes it’s helping; he watches Derek out of the corner of his eye. Derek moves slowly, stopping for long moments over some items, holding things in his hands for a long time before putting them down, but the house slowly begins to look like someone lives there.

They stop after a couple of hours to eat; Stiles grabbed everything at the store that looked remotely appealing - a party platter of meats and cheeses, cookies, cut veggies because he knows Derek likes to eat healthy, chips and dip. Spread out over the dining room table, it looks like they’re having a proper party, even though it’s just the two of them. 

“I think I got carried away,” Stiles admits. 

“You think?” Derek replies, and Stiles grins at him. He watches Derek pick at a piece of cheddar, and gets caught off guard when Derek asks, “Where’s your family?”

“It’s just my dad,” Stiles says. “My mom died when I was a kid. He lives like an hour from here.”

Derek nods slowly. “You see him often?”

“A couple times a month,” Stiles replies. “I’ll probably drive up to see him this weekend.”

Derek nods again, his eyes shifting to the table. Stiles shifts around in his chair, a little uncomfortable. He’s never sure what to talk about with Derek. Even helping him unpack hasn’t been much of a source of personal information just yet - there’s not a lot of personal details that can divined from kitchen utensils. “You, uh, got any big plans coming up? Vacation time?”

Derek gives him a sarcastic look. “I’m having a baby.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “Um. You think you’re ready?”

Derek’s quiet. He picks up a piece of celery but doesn’t eat it, fiddling with it instead, rolling it between his fingers. “No,” he admits after a long moment, his eyes on the table. “I wasn’t ready for any of this. I’m not going to be a good father.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Stiles says encouragingly. “I don’t think any new parent feels ready. My best friend has a kid, and he was _freaking out_ when he found out, but you know what? Scott’s turned out to be a really awesome dad. I think - I think you’ll step up. You kind of have to.”

Derek looks at him, an almost wondering expression in his face - he either believes Stiles, or can’t believe how full of shit he is, which is not a new reaction to Stiles. He grins. “You want to finish the living room?”

-

The last thing to be unpacked in the living room is a long, flat parcel. Derek handles this one, carefully cutting the tape and folding back the cardboard. Whatever’s inside is wrapped in paper, and Stiles leans in curiously to see as Derek peels the paper back. It’s a painting, a big one - almost as long as Stiles is tall, but narrow, probably only two feet wide. It’s abstract, smooth lines of color melding into each other, soft sea greens, rich taupes, pale grays.

“That’s nice,” Stiles says, watching Derek lift the painting from its wrappings. Derek’s looking at it reverently, almost holding his breath. “Someone you know do it?”

“My sister,” Derek says, carefully leaning it up against the wall.

Stiles tilts his head to one side. “How do you know it’s the right way up?”

Derek spares him a glance, looking almost amused. “Laura always said there was no right way, and then she’d get mad at the way I hung it up.”

Stiles snorts. “Well, she was talented, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and Stiles can see the way the sadness creeps back across his face. 

Stiles hesitates, because it’s really none of his business, but no one deserves to be so unhappy all the time. “Have you talked to anyone about all of this?”

Derek gives him another glancing look, his eyebrows furrowing. “Talked to who?”

“A…professional,” Stiles says. “About losing your family?”

He holds his breath, worried Derek’s going to get angry, but after a moment, Derek just shakes his head. “Do you think it’d help?” he asks quietly. 

Stiles blinks, surprised. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure, I mean, if you find someone you feel comfortable with.” He bites at his lip for a moment before adding, “It’s obviously okay to be sad about things, and everyone handles grief differently, but…you seem more than sad. I - worry about you.”

Derek looks at his feet, one of his hands straying toward his stomach. “I don’t feel right,” he admits. “I can’t… _shake_ this. I don’t know how to be happy.” He breathes in sharply, like he’s shocked himself by saying it out loud. 

“You can get help for that,” Stiles says carefully. “It’s not your fault.”

Derek sighs softly and puts his hands on his stomach. “I want to be happy for her,” he says. 

“Well - think about it, then,” Stiles says. He hesitates again before adding, “I hope I wasn’t out of line.”

“No,” Derek says absently. “I needed to hear someone say it.” He looks at Stiles, his hands still on his stomach, and for the first time, he offers Stiles a faint smile. It’s just a bare sliver of one, a quick flash of white teeth, but it changes Derek’s face completely - he looks like a real person, not a sad robot shuffling through life. It dazes Stiles, leaves him slow to respond when Derek asks, “Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

“I - sure,” Stiles says, surprised that Derek’s offering up an activity. The atmosphere’s different in the house now, he thinks, as they settle onto the couch - Derek’s actually got a pretty nice entertainment system set up, which also vaguely surprises Stiles. Derek seems a little more relaxed, slouching deeply into the couch cushions. Stiles had worried that things might get weird after he’d brought up the possibility of therapy - he knows there’s a general societal stigma toward it - but maybe Derek was telling the truth; maybe he’d just needed a push. 

-

Derek finds a therapist. He tells his doctor what Stiles told him, and she asks him some questions about how he’s been feeling. She seems worried by his responses; after a few minutes, she takes her hands off her keyboard, where she’d been entering notes into the computer, and gently asks, “Have you had any thoughts of self harm or suicide?”

“No,” Derek says. But then, because he wants to be honest, he says, "Sometimes…I think it’d be better if I stopped existing.”

“Well I don’t want that, Derek,” she tells him with a worried smile. “We’ll find you someone who can help.” And she does; he gets an appointment that afternoon, and it’s - it’s not as hard as he’d thought it’d be. It’s _hard_ emotionally, but the therapist asks him careful questions that make him think, which is something that he’s been avoiding, and after the session is over, he feels a little lighter. His problems are far from solved, but it feels kind of nice, knowing he has someone he can talk to, and when he leaves her office, he doesn’t have to see her until he returns - it’s not like unburdening himself onto, say, Stiles, who he’d then see at work every day.

He sees her multiple times over the next few weeks, and after a consultation with his doctor, she prescribes him mild antidepressants, and then she challenges him: unpack one of the boxes in the nursery, or put together one piece of furniture for the baby. This scares Derek, but he knows that she’ll ask how it went the next time he sees her, and the thought of that is enough to make him do it. It doesn’t hurt that Stiles is there; he shows up with a box of pizza right as Derek is steeling himself up go into the nursery, and he’d felt too vulnerable to turn him away. Stiles helps enthusiastically, holding the pieces of the crib together so Derek can twist the bolts into place. When it’s finished, Derek feels…proud. Long after Stiles has left, he treads quietly into the nursery and looks down at the crib with his hands on his stomach.

“That’s for you,” he tells his baby, and after a moment of hesitation, lifts the rabbit from Laura out of its box and places it in the crib. It still hurts to see, but his heart feels a little less raw than it used to.

-

Maybe it’s the therapy, or maybe it’s the antidepressants or the passage of time, or all of that together, but slowly, it’s like a fog is lifting from Derek’s eyes. The world seems a little more real, colors more vibrant, sounds louder, objects more solid. Food tastes better. It’s easier to get up in the morning. He’s more alert, finds himself actually interested in the people around him, and at the front of all those people is Stiles.

Stiles is…an enigma. Derek’s not sure what Stiles sees in him, but he starts to notice Stiles in a way he didn’t before. Stiles is pushy and kind of obnoxious, but he pays attention to a lot more than he lets on; he knows everything about everyone in the office, and tells Derek all about them when they eat lunch together in the break room. (Somehow, it’s become a habit. Don’t ask Derek; he couldn’t say why.) There’s something about Stiles, bright and sharp and witty, that Derek can’t turn his attention away from. He wants Stiles a little bit - or a lot - and feels guilty about it, because Stiles has never been anything but friendly, and Derek was awful to him in the beginning.

His therapist says his instincts are strongest now - that it’s normal for him to seek a partner, and it’s perfectly okay to be attracted to Stiles. Derek thinks Stiles won’t want him, mired in depression with a baby on the way. His therapist disagrees; she says it’s obvious Stiles cares for him in some way, though whether it’s romantically or platonically is up to Derek to find out. She doesn’t challenge him, exactly, but the suggestion is there in her voice. Derek knows she’s there to help him, guide him, but she can’t hold his hand out in the real world.

One day he’s standing next to Stiles in the break room as he makes his tea and Stiles gets his coffee - another little habit of theirs - when Derek freezes at a strange fluttering sensation in his stomach. It feels weird, almost like he’s going to be sick, but not at all the same.

Stiles, ever observant, tilts his head curiously. “You all right?”

“I - “ Derek swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “I think she just moved.”

Stiles looks delighted. “Seriously? That’s awesome!”

Derek stares at him, surprised, as always, by Stiles’ enthusiasm about a baby that’s not even his. And yet, at the same time, there’s something about Stiles’ enthusiasm that’s catching; Derek finds he’s smiling as he looks down at his stomach, feeling that strange flutter again. 

Stiles nudges him gently. “I like that smile on you, man,” he says. “And hey - congrats.”

So Stiles is - Stiles. Derek doesn’t know what to make of him. Another cupcake shows up on Derek’s desk - red velvet - and this time, Derek doesn’t throw it out. He looks automatically to Stiles’ desk and Stiles isn’t looking at him, but the corners of his mouth are curling upward. Derek eats the cupcake; he can’t remember the last time he indulged in something sweet. It feels like such a breakthrough that he tells his therapist about it and she beams, reaching into a desk draw to hand him a Twix. Derek puts it in the glovebox of his car; _for a rainy day,_ he thinks, and surprises himself by laughing out loud.

Stiles shows up at Derek’s place early one Saturday morning. He’s been doing this more often, showing up without asking, like maybe he’s afraid Derek would say no if he asked to come over. Derek wouldn’t - though he might have at first - but he finds that he enjoys the thrill of Stiles just showing up, so he doesn’t say anything at all, just opens the door so Stiles can breeze inside.

On this morning, Stiles shows up with an armload of tiny cans of paint, and Derek can’t help raising his eyebrows. “What are those for?”

“I’ve stood by long enough,” Stiles says, striding into the house. “You’re going to pick a color and then I’m going to paint the nursery for you this weekend.” He spins around, leveling Derek with a serious look. “If that’s all right with you.”

Derek huffs quietly. “Like you’d stop if I wasn’t.” He’s mostly joking, though Stiles is like a freight train sometimes - unstoppable.

“I would,” Stiles says seriously.

“I know,” Derek says. He looks at Stiles, with his arms laden with paint, and he feels that flicker of a bond between them, but what does it _mean?_ “All right,” he says, because he’s not sure he’d ever be able to work himself up to it, and he’s secretly pleased to have Stiles treat him like this.

He stands in the doorway, watching Stiles carefully crack open cans of paint and brush sample swatches onto the wall. They look at them together, considering.

“The blue’s nice,” Stiles says, tilting his head. It is; it’s a nice soft slate blue, but Derek’s not sure it’s right for the nursery.

“I like the green,” he says, a gentle sage.

“Is that a decision?” Stiles asks, grinning at him.

Derek looks at the wall and then at Stiles. “It is,” he decides.

They go to Lowes and get paint; Stiles tries to carry too much by himself and gets annoyed when Derek takes a can from him. Derek just rolls his eyes and tells Stiles that even though he’s nearly seven months along, he can still carry a gallon of paint.

Back at the house, they move everything from the baby’s room into the spare bedroom, and then Stiles spends the day painting. He won’t let Derek help, makes a lot of noise about paint fumes, and to be honest, Derek’s getting a headache from them anyway, so he mostly leaves Stiles to himself.

Stiles emerges occasionally, hanging out with Derek in between coats of paint. Derek makes him lunch as a thank you, cooking a real meal for the first time in months. Stiles raves about it, and Derek can’t stop looking at him, entranced by a fine spray of soft green dots of paint bridging his nose and right cheek. Stiles notices him looking; there’s a moment when he stills, looking at Derek in an unfamiliar way, and Derek doesn’t know how to interpret it, so he makes a lot of noise about getting up and clearing the table. Stiles opens his mouth and then closes it, drifting back off to the nursery. 

Derek’s afraid to figure out what they mean to each other, afraid that whatever he feels for Stiles, Stiles won’t feel the same way back. What they have right now is good; Stiles is the only person Derek could call a friend, and he doesn’t want to mess that up by trying to change their relationship. He’s had enough ups and downs lately that he doesn’t think he could handle the consequences if things don’t go the way he wants them to. Better to not rock the boat.

Still, it’s hard at the end of the day, when Stiles calls him into the nursery to see. Derek slows in the doorway, quietly taking in the sight of the room, which looks completely different with the new coat of paint. It looks like a room he’d want to be in.

“Tada!” Stiles says cheerfully. “What do you think?”

Derek looks at him. He feels a little overwhelmed at Stiles’ generosity, and the way Stiles smells like pride and satisfaction confuses his instincts. He wants Stiles so badly he can feel it, a pull in his gut that’s not the baby shifting around. He takes a confused, swaying step toward Stiles, who’s looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“It’s - it’s really good,” Derek says quietly.

Stiles looks pleased, swinging around to observe the room. “Right? I think the green was a good choice.”

Maybe this is all just a dream, Derek thinks. Maybe he’s going to wake up and find out Stiles isn’t real, is just a coping mechanism Derek came up with to distract himself from Laura’s death. He sways closer.

“Should let it sit overnight,” Stiles says. “Tomorrow, we could - uh.” He trails away. Derek’s taken the chance, leans into his side, their shoulders pressed together. If this is a dream, he’ll wake soon. If it’s not, he can pretend it was a mistake. Say the paint fumes got to him.

Stiles is very still. He barely seems to be breathing. Derek closes his eyes, lets his head rest on Stiles’ shoulder. He wants Stiles so bad; he’s afraid to look at him, afraid of what he’ll see on his face. 

After a long, long moment of absolute stillness, Stiles moves, his hand touching Derek’s back. “Derek,” he says, nearly a whisper. “I - are you - ” He stops, sounding uncertain. “What do you want?”

“You,” Derek says softly, swallowing hard. He opens his eyes but keeps his gaze fixed on the wall. Stiles doesn’t say anything and Derek’s heart begins to sink. “I’m sorry,” he says flatly, straightening abruptly. “Forget I said it.”

“No, no!” Stiles says hurriedly, grabbing his arm. “Sorry - you just caught me off guard, okay? I didn’t think you felt the same way.”

Derek finally meets his eyes, hope rising in his chest. “The same?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, smiling faintly. He reaches out slowly, taking Derek’s hands in his. 

“Even with her on the way?” Derek asks, nodding down at his stomach, his mouth dry.

“Yeah,” Stiles says again, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he smiles wider. “I’m assuming you’re a package deal, right? I don’t mind.”

“Oh,” Derek says wonderingly. He can’t quite believe this is happening - does he really get to have this? He remembers that night at the hospital, of wanting someone to love him. He thinks Stiles could be that person. This isn’t a dream. “You’re sure?”

Stiles nods and tugs Derek back in close, letting go of his hands to slide them around his neck, strong fingers pressed against his skin. Their stomachs press together and Derek thinks he should hate the feel of it but he doesn’t, his eyes sinking half-shut as Stiles leans in even closer, drags the tip of his nose against Derek’s cheekbone, lips brushing his skin. Derek feels settled for the first time in months, all the worry temporarily gone from his mind. 

“I’m sure,” Stiles murmurs, and kisses him so fiercely that Derek doesn’t have the heart to ask again.

-

It’s not easy; Derek has plenty of bad days, but there are good days too, and they occur more and more frequently with every passing week. It’s still hard for Derek to accept Stiles’ help sometimes, but knowing he’s got someone to support him - to take him to doctor’s appointments, and share his meals with, and curl up against in the middle of the night - helps lifts some of the weight from his shoulders. Stiles willingly shoulders the weight himself; he signs them up for a birthing class, and rattles off possibilities for names, and croons lullabies to the baby in his horrible, off-key singing voice, and some of that joy that disappeared when Laura died comes creeping back without Derek even realizing it.

Derek stops working two weeks before his due date, but Stiles gets their coworkers to throw Derek a baby shower, and he’s there when Derek goes into labor while they’re watching tv one evening, and he’s there in the delivery room when the doctor shows them the baby, red-faced, squalling Olive (Stiles’ suggestion, of course). He might cry harder than Derek does, but valiantly points out it’s not a competition, even if he does sniff the entire time he first holds her. Derek, watching him kiss Olive’s small forehead, feels his chest go tight with love - love for Olive, love for Stiles. Stiles catches his eyes and a knowing smile spreads across his face. He climbs onto the bed and passes her to Derek, tucks his head against Derek’s shoulder, and Derek lets his eyes drift shut, head heavy with content. He’s had his ups and downs in life but this, he thinks, is definitely on the up and up.


	91. Chapter 91

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** how about a break up? up to you if they reconcile or not.
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, long distance, established relationships, misunderstanding

It’s been two months since Derek last spoke to Stiles, almost three since he last saw him. He has no particular desire to ever see him again, but Derek still lives in Beacon Hills, and so does Stiles when he’s not at school, so he knows it’s only inevitable that they see each other around town. It doesn’t mean he has to like it, and he’s definitely not looking forward to it. 

It just…hurts. He’d thought - and now he will never admit this to anyone, ever - Stiles was the _one_. And worse, he’d thought that Stiles thought that too, to the point where Derek had begun thinking about bringing up marriage. They’d said _I love you_ to each other a thousand times; why would Stiles say that if he didn’t mean it? And why had Derek been stupid enough to believe him? Of all of his spectacularly failed romantic relationships, this one hurts the most because Stiles isn’t evil, he’s not a murderer, he knows right from wrong. He’s just an asshole, and Derek loved him with his entire being. What does that make him?

After Derek heard the voicemail, he reacted how he always did in times of great emotional stress; he completely shut down. He didn’t focus on the great, vast pit of misery in his chest - he just blocked it out completely. He didn’t answer any of Stiles’ texts and then, later, any of his calls, until they became so frequent that Derek blocked his number and then, for good measure, blocked him on the few social media accounts Stiles had goaded him into setting up. He half expected Stiles to show up at his door, but it’d been the middle of midterms and he knew that Stiles wouldn’t abandon his classes, even for him. Especially not for him.

None of their friends say anything. Derek doesn’t see any of them until the pack Thanksgiving, when they all come back to town from their various colleges. Stiles doesn’t go; Derek goes to the dinner with his head held high, ready for silence, ready for a fight, but Stiles doesn’t show up. Derek overhears Scott telling Mason that Stiles had decided to stay in Sacramento for the break, throwing in a frown at Derek, but Derek ignores this. Maybe Stiles told them not to say anything. Maybe Stiles hasn’t told them. Maybe they’re mad at Stiles on his behalf. Derek doubts it; he knows his place in the pack is only because he’s a Hale. If he’d been any other werewolf, they wouldn’t give him the time of day. Malia’s the only one who flatly ignores him, but Derek expects this; they may be cousins, but she loved Stiles first.

He spends the Christmas holiday in South America with Cora. He doesn’t tell her much, but she’s too smart for her own good, and guesses most of it without his input. She makes a lot of noise about beating up Stiles for him, but they both know she’s full of hot air and anyway, it doesn’t make him feel better. The misery’s starting to creep in, as much as he tries to fight it, and even three weeks of bright Brazilian sunshine isn’t enough to shake it out of him. He still has to go home to an empty apartment - he packed up Stiles’ things and left them on the front porch of the Stilinski house weeks ago - and at night it consumes him. He can’t shake the memory of Stiles’ sharp smile, his long fingers, his comforting smell. Derek’s bed still smells like him, even though he washes the sheets over and over.

It has to happen eventually, and it does. Derek had thought Stiles would be back at school by now, but apparently he’s got the dates wrong because he sees Stiles at the grocery store. He’s cut his hair short, close to his scalp, like it used to be in high school, but his face isn’t soft like it was back then. Derek finds himself thrown by the unhappy look on his face, the twist of his mouth as he stares morosely at the red onions. He receives a second shock when he realizes Stiles is wearing one of Derek’s shirt, a dark gray henley he must have left at Stiles’ apartment at some point. Derek’s stomach twists painfully as he thinks about how Stiles must smell, their scents twined together.

Derek turns before Stiles can spot him, grabs bread and peanut butter instead of the chicken he was planning on, and he’s standing at the register with his card out to pay when he glances around and sees Stiles standing at the end of the cereal aisle, staring at him. _Fuck,_ Derek thinks, and stares meaningfully at the clerk, who takes her sweet time dropping his two items into a bag. He doesn’t look around again, striding out of the store quickly, and he almost makes it to his car before he hears fast steps behind him, Stiles snapping out “Hey!”

Derek ignores him and reaches for his keys, but Stiles snaps, “Hey!” again, and grabs his arm.

Derek shakes him off furiously. _“Don’t_ touch me!” he snarls, anger rising in him so quickly it leaves him almost lightheaded.

Stiles glares at him, two spots of color high on his cheeks. Derek used to love making that color appear when they were having sex; now it just makes his stomach turn. “Do you have anything to say to me?” Stiles asks angrily.

This makes Derek straighten, anger pushing him ramrod straight. “ _Excuse me?”_ he hisses, fangs pushing at his gums. He doesn’t care that they’re standing in the middle of a parking lot on a busy Saturday afternoon; he wants to rip Stiles’ heart out.

“You heard me,” Stiles says coldly. “What the fuck is your problem? How could you do that to me? I thought something had happened to you! I made my dad go make sure you were still alive! What the fuck,” he says, spitting out the words, “is wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me?” Derek snarls. “That’s fucking rich! You - ” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, finds the voicemail. He listens to it sometimes when he’s feeling weak and wants to contact Stiles. He presses play.

Stiles opens his mouth and then shuts it as his own voice fills the air between them. There are people laughing in the background, and Stiles is laughing too, caught mid-sentence as he says, “ - so fucking annoying.”

Someone says something to him; Derek recognizes the voice as one of Stiles’ college friends, but he’s too far away from the phone to be audible. Whatever he says, Stiles laughs again. “Nah,” he says. “He’s really into it, but I’m not that invested. I can’t really see myself doing it much longer.”

“That’s cold,” laughs the friend, closer, and Stiles sighs.

“He’s always texting me,” he says. “He’s like a junkie jonesing for his next hit, I swear to god. Look.” There’s a rustling as if of cloth and then Stiles says, “Shit, my phone - ” and the sound cuts off abruptly.

Derek shoves his phone back into his pocket. “I trusted you,” he says viciously. “I loved you.”

Stiles has gone pale, the color drained from his cheeks. Derek thinks he should feel victorious, but he just feels worse than ever. “Derek,” Stiles says unsteadily. “I - ”

“Shut up,” Derek says wearily. He feels suddenly exhausted, uninterested in listening to Stiles’ excuses. “Just - stay away from me.” He turns abruptly, jogging off between the cars before Stiles can stop him.

“Derek!” Stiles yells after him, but Derek just puts on speed. He leaves his car there, crosses town and heads for the preserve. He doesn’t want to be near anyone right now, least of all Stiles.

He sits out in the preserve for a long time, eats a peanut butter sandwich when his stomach rumbles, but doesn’t really taste it. He looks at his phone, expecting something from Stiles, then remembers that he blocked him weeks ago. When he finally goes back to the loft, he can tell by the scent pooling in the hallway that Stiles came by, but thankfully didn’t go inside. Derek knows he’s got a key (he should get that back; maybe Kira would grab it for him), but at least he’s got a little respect for Derek’s space.

Derek’s eating another peanut butter sandwich a couple hours later when he hears the elevator doors open on his floor. He stiffens and shuts off the light so it won’t look like he’s home, but Stiles still knocks on the door. He’s persistent, Derek will give him that.

“Derek,” Stiles says, when Derek doesn’t answer the door. There’s a soft thunk, like he’s pressed his forehead against it. “Derek, I know you’re in there. I saw your light on outside.” 

Derek grimaces. Why did he have the light on anyway? He can see in the dark.

“Derek, please,” Stiles says, his voice dropping lower, miserable. “I get what you must have thought, but I wasn’t talking about you.” Derek scoffs, and like Stiles heard him, he says, “I _swear._ Derek, listen to my heartbeat: I _wasn’t_ talking about you. I was talking about this friend I play WoW with and he’s always bugging me to go raiding with him and I - ” Stiles takes a deep breath, exhales shakily. “I love you,” he says. “I love you so fucking much. I’d never - I’d never lead you on. I’d never lie to you; if I had a problem with our relationship, I’d tell you. You _know_ I like to complain. I - ” He stops, breathing hard, like he’s just run a marathon. 

“I know it must have hurt,” Stiles says, his voice shakier now. Derek sits silently, forgetting to breathe. “If I’d heard what you heard, I don’t know what I would have done. I’m so fucking sorry, Derek. Please believe me. _Please.”_

Derek doesn’t move. He doesn’t know what to think. Stiles’ heart is hammering so fast Derek can’t tell if he’s lying or not, and Derek wants to believe him, but the hurt’s so great. His head’s spinning.

“Okay,” Stiles says unhappily, after a long moment of silence. “I’m going back to school on Wednesday. If you - I’d like to see you before I go. But if you don’t want to see me - I get it.” He hesitates for a moment and then says, “Bye, Der.”

Derek sits and listens to him get back into the elevator, and then he gets to his feet, throwing what’s left of his sandwich into the trash before crawling into bed. He rests his head on a pillow that smells like him and Stiles, and closes his eyes. He misses Stiles with every fiber of his being, loves him with all of his heart, loves him so much it scares him. He never wanted to believe Stiles didn’t love him, never wanted to believe that he was capable of such cruelty - and if he’s telling the truth, Derek should have known better. It’d just hurt so much in that moment to hear it that he’d never stopped to think it might not be true - that Stiles might not be talking about him. And if Stiles _is_ telling the truth, then Derek’s fucked up the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and he had no idea if he can fix it.

He pulls out his phone. He hasn’t deleted their pictures yet - hasn’t had the courage - and he flips through them now. There aren’t a lot; Derek’s not much of a picture taker, nor does he like being in them, but there are enough. There’s Stiles in Derek’s bed, naked body contorted in one of his myriad impossible sleeping positions. There’s Stiles glaring at the camera over a mug of coffee, hair askew in the morning sunlight. There’s one Lydia sent him of their beach trip earlier in the summer; he and Stiles sit by a bonfire, Derek’s eyes closed as he presses a kiss to Stiles’ cheek. 

Derek stares at this picture for a long time, tapping his screen to bring it back every time it goes dark. He knows what to believe - what he should have believed all along.

-

In the morning, Derek rises and takes a shower. He trims back his beard, which has gotten a little out of hand in the past month. He dresses carefully, and then he leaves. His car is still at the grocery store so he walks, crossing town until he’s in the woods behind Stiles’ house. The sheriff is there, and Derek waits patiently for him to leave, no anxious for a confrontation with an armed man. Finally, around the time Stiles gets out of bed, the sheriff gets into his cruiser and drives off down the street. Derek waits a little bit longer, watching Stiles work his way through two cups of coffee in the kitchen, and then when Stiles steps out onto the back deck with a third, Derek comes out of the woods.

Stiles sees him right away, but seems to freeze; when Derek gets close enough, he can see Stiles’ knuckles are white where he’s gripping the mug handle so tightly. Derek stops at the bottom of the porch steps, drawing in a deep, calming breath before he says, “I’m sorry.”

Stiles bites at his lip before he says, “You don’t have to apologize. I get it - if I’d heard the same thing - you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“Yes I do,” Derek says. “For the way I reacted - I should have talked to you about it. I ran away instead. I know I hurt you.” He’s ashamed.

“I’m not going to pretend it didn’t hurt,” Stiles says. Derek flinches. He smiles sadly. “Scott had to convince me not to drive up here - I would have flunked all my midterms. I wish I had, though,” he adds. “Would have saved us two months of misery. I wanted to see you so bad, but I know you don’t like feeling like you’ve been backed into a corner, so I thought maybe if I just gave you some time, you’d talk to me. Tell me what I did wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says again, his heart aching. “Stiles - “

Stiles sets his mug down on the deck railing. “Would you come here, please?” he asks, spreading his hands wide.

Derek hesitates for a moment and then walks up the steps into Stiles’ arms. Tension he hadn’t even known he was holding between his shoulder blades disappears at the familiar comfort of Stiles’ scent, sharp pine and aftershave. “I missed you,” he mumbles.

“I missed you too,” Stiles says, looping his arms around Derek’s neck. “You asshole.” He doesn’t sound angry.

Derek makes a low, pained noise when Stiles rubs his cheek against Derek’s, his heart clenching at the familiar gesture. “Did I fuck everything up?”

Stiles draws back a little so he can look at Derek, hands sliding up to cup his cheeks. “No,” he says. “I mean - just - can you promise me something?”

“What?”

“Talk to me,” Stiles says. “If you’re ever upset. I don’t care if you need time to think first - just tell me and I’ll leave you alone until you’re ready. But I can’t take you disappearing on me. Not again.”

“I won’t,” Derek promises. “I swear.” It won’t be easy, but he’ll make himself do it for Stiles - and for himself, too; he barely got through these last two months. He doesn’t think he could do it again either.

Stiles stares into his eyes for a moment before he nods. “Okay,” he says. “And - you know I’m all in, right? I - you’re it for me, Derek.”

“You’re it for me, too,” Derek says. He hesitates, then says, “I love you - more than anything.”

Stiles smiles faintly. “Even more than Twizzlers?“

“Even more than Twizzlers,” Derek says.

“That’s a deep love,” Stiles says quietly.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. “It is.”

Stiles leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “You want to come in?” he asks. “Have some coffee? I could use a little company.”

“I’d like that,” Derek says. “I’ve been a little lonely myself.”


	92. Chapter 92

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** A fic where Derek and Stiles have been trying for a kid for ages but nothing happens. There's angst and arguments and they decide to put it on hold to save their relationship. Then randomly Stiles gets pregnant a few months later. 
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, established relationship, mpreg, fertility issues, omega!Stiles, beta!Derek

They’re quiet in the car on the way home. Stiles has his head turned toward the window, and what Derek can see of his expression is unhappy, the corners of his mouth turned down. Derek wants to say something to him, but there’s nothing that hasn’t been said before; he’s out of reassurances, long past making promises. Stiles’ hands are folded in his lap and Derek wants to reach over and touch him but he doesn’t, not sure his touch is welcome at the moment.

He feels like a failure. Everything has always been so easy for them, from their first date to getting married. They fight, sure, but never stay angry long; they know how to talk to each other and work things out. They’re compatible in every way except, it seems, this.

When they get home, Stiles disappears into the house. Derek lets him go, puts the dishes away, goes down into the basement to work out. He’s halfway through a series of reps with his free weights when he hears Stiles behind him, and turns to face him. Stiles is wearing his pajamas and he still has that unhappy look on his face, but he says, “Will you come upstairs?”

“Sure,” Derek says, and Stiles waits for him to rerack the weights, then slips his hand into Derek’s as they head upstairs. Derek holds it tightly and only lets go when they enter their bedroom. “I should shower - ”

“Not right now,” Stiles says, already heading for their bed. “Please.”

It’s the defeated way he says it that pulls Derek after him, climbing into bed and curling himself around Stiles, who sighs and links their hands together again, their wedding rings clinking quietly when they touch. Derek presses a soft kiss to the back of Stiles’ neck, locks his lips against the words he wants to say. Once, weeks ago, he’d begun to say, “If I weren’t a beta, maybe - ” and Stiles had gotten so mad at him he’d threatened to divorce Derek if he ever said anything like that again. 

It’s true, though; if he were an alpha, Stiles probably would have been pregnant months ago, but Derek’s got the low sperm count typical of betas, and Stiles has abnormally low hormones levels for an omega, and with the news that their third attempt at fertility treatments has failed, he doesn’t know what they’re going to do.they both want children desperately, and Stiles is violently opposed to using a donor. They could try adopting, but the chances of them, as an omega-beta pair, being approved are low. Derek doesn’t think Stiles would leave him if they never have kids, but he’s not sure how their relationship will change if they stay together.

“I love you,” Stiles mumbles, his hand tightening around Derek’s.

“I love you too,” Derek murmurs into his skin, grateful, always, to have him.

-

It takes Stiles longer than usual to get over the failure of the third try; he’d shrugged it off in a couple of days the first two times, went back at it with his usual determinedness. “Third time’s the charm,” he’d said to Derek when they went in for the third try, and maybe he really thinks this is it; that the third time was the last time. He’s quiet for days, and he’ll smile if Derek does something smile-worthy, but the look will quickly fade. He takes to spending a lot of time sitting on their back porch, pushing himself back and forth on the swinging bench as he looks out over the garden. He doesn’t turn Derek away if he comes out to join him, so Derek understands that it’s not him Stiles is upset at, but he doesn’t know what to do to make him feel better.

“Do you want to try again?” Derek asks him, a week after the third try.

“No,” Stiles says simply. He looks down at his stomach, crossing his arms over his torso. “I think it’s pretty obvious it’s not going to work.” His mouth trembles and he says, “Maybe you should leave.”

Derek brings his head up sharply. “What?”

“Find someone else,” Stiles says miserably. “Someone who can give you a kid - ”

“I don’t want a kid with someone else,” Derek says, hurt. “I love _you._ What would _you_ do, go find an alpha and - ”

Stiles waves this aside, his eyes wet. “I don’t want to prevent you from having a family - ”

“ _You_ are my family,” Derek tells him angrily. “I want kids because I want to share that with you, no one else. Do you _want_ me to leave?”

“Of course not,” Stiles says. “But - “

“Then there’s nothing to discuss,” Derek says flatly.

Stiles is silent. They don’t talk for a couple hours after this argument, but afterward, Stiles shaves for the first time in three days, and when he comes back downstairs, he says, “What if we just take a break from trying for a while? Maybe they’ll come out with a better technology in a few months or something.”

Derek, who’s simmering on the couch as he reads a book, feels the anger drain away when he looks up and sees his husband standing there, looking just as good in sweatpants as he did in a suit at their wedding. 

“Okay,” he says, and life’s a little easier after that, swinging back toward normal. Maybe they _were_ trying too hard before; it was causing them a lot of stress - now it’s nice to slump against each other on the couch in the evenings and talk about stuff like work instead of Stiles’ hormone treatments. They get out more - the hormones had given Stiles blinding headaches - which is a double-edged sword because they see their friends, but they also see their friends’ children, and it’s hard. Derek loves kids, and for some reason kids love him, so he’s happy to let himself be tackled, but when he looks around and sees Stiles watching him with a look of yearning on his face, he has to pull himself away, put his arms around Stiles, breathe deep against his hair.

“Hey,” Stiles says one morning while they’re laying in bed, golden sunlight warming the sheets. “What do you think about taking a vacation somewhere?”

Derek rolls onto his stomach so he can see Stiles’ face. “Sure,” he says. “Where do you want to go?”

“I dunno,” Stiles says. “I want to go everywhere.”

They don’t go everywhere, but they go to many places. They rent an RV and drive it up the coast and all the way into British Columbia, because Stiles has never been to Canada, and Derek hasn’t been since he was a kid. They camp - although Derek’s idea of camping is not in an RV, but Stiles won’t tolerate much less - and they hike, and they swim in lakes and rivers, and it feels a little like when they were first dating, when everything was new. Derek thinks he falls in love with Stiles all over again, watching him in the twilight as they sit by the fire on the shore of a vast, peaceful lake. 

It’s something of a chore, returning to real life after that. Derek works from home, and he spends a lot of time daydreaming, thinking about Stiles climbing out of the water, the way his hair plasters to his forehead and water rolls down his flat stomach. Their sex life has picked up after months of stagnation due to all the treatments; they had more sex on the trip than the past six months combined, and Derek spends a lot of time reliving those moments, happy in his thoughts, and happy when Stiles comes home so they can make more moments.

Maybe a month and a half after their trip, Derek’s sitting in his office when he hears a loud thump from upstairs. He frowns vaguely, mind still half on his work, but he gets to his feet when he realizes it must have been Stiles. 

“Stiles?” he calls up the stairs. “You all right?”

There’s no answer, which makes him frown. He heads up the stairs and his frown deepens when he sees the bathroom door is closed. “Stiles?” he calls again, knocking gently on the door. There’s still no response, but he can hear Stiles breathing on the other side, fast and a little panicked. Worry surges in Derek’s chest. He tries the knob and finds it unlocked, and when he opens the door, he sees Stiles sitting on the floor, hunched forward.

“Stiles?” he asks, concern softening his voice. “Are you - “

Stiles twists around to look at him and his eyes are wet, but a smile struggles its way onto his face. Derek freezes when he sees what Stiles is holding: a pregnancy test.

“Stiles,” he breathes. “Is it - are you - “

“I am,” Stiles says, his voice a little shaky. 

Derek’s moving before he knows it, dropping down onto the floor next to him, and Stiles surges to meet him, winding his limbs around Derek so tightly he can hardly breathe, but that’s of little consequence at the moment. “Are you sure,” he murmurs, cheek pressed to Stiles’.

“It said yes,” Stiles says. “I can get another - or the doctor - but it’s - _fuck,_ Derek.” He grabs Derek’s face and kisses him wildly. They’re panting when they pull apart, and Stiles’ eyes are glowing omega blue. 

“We’re having a baby,” Derek tells him, almost wonderingly, and Stiles grins.

“We’re having a baby,” he confirms, and leans in to kiss him again. Derek holds onto him for all he’s worth, grateful, always, to have him.


	93. Chapter 93

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A dark au I thought up while in the bath.**
> 
> **Pairing:** None
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, kid!Stiles, witch!Stiles, werewolves are known, found family

It's dark in the woods, and Stiles is scared. Lights bounce off the trees and kiss at his heels, and there are voices echoing through the trees, calling for him, but he doesn't dare stop running. He trips over branches and crashes through bushes, and it's getting harder and harder to catch his breath, his heart hammering in his chest. 

"Come on, son!" someone yells, too close. "We're not going to hurt you!"

Stiles whimpers when a branch slaps his face; he ducks under it and skids down an embankment, mud oozing up over his sneakers. It's cold out, and dark, and he's shaking; Dad wouldn't stop to let him change, barely let him grab a hoodie - he's still wearing shorts from soccer practice, and now his shins are prickling with goosebumps and red with scratches from the underbrush.

Stiles trips over a rotten stump when he comes up the other side of the embankment and goes careening face first into a tree; it sends stars bursting in his vision, tears burning in his eyes. Don't cry, Dad had said. Don't cry.

Stiles slides back against the tree, tugging his hood over his head as he sinks down into the leaves, the voices and crashing footsteps drawing near. He squeezes his eyes shut, tears spilling down his cheeks, and thinks _I'm not here. You can't see me. Go away._

He feels it when the spell takes; everything around him goes dull and echoey and far away, like he's underwater. The lights in the trees around him blur as if smothered by a sudden heavy fog, and the hunters, when they draw near, waver and shift like ghosts. Stiles buries his face against his knees and thinks _go away go away go away._ One of the hunters leans against the tree next to him, says, "Where'd the little fucker go?" and for a moment, Stiles forgets to breathe.

Eventually, they move off, flashlights bouncing off the trees. Stiles doesn't move, his arms wrapped around his knees. There's no point. They got Dad. Stiles clenches his teeth against a sob, his eyes burning again. They already got Mom. They'll get him too, and then they'll light him on fire. He burned his hand on the stove once; he knows it hurts.

Stiles doesn't know how long he sits there; time goes distant and funny, the sounds of the forest muted by his spell, cocooning him, keeping him safe. Stiles keeps his face hidden, shaking in the cold, shaking with fright and misery. Tears keep swelling and fading in his eyes. He's lost. He's lost, and when he finally does lift his head, he's surrounded by wolves.

They don't make a noise. Stiles can barely see them in the dark woods, but he can see their eyes, burning gold. He draws in closer to himself, terrified, but there's nowhere to run, and the wolves seem to be able to see him, even with the spell. One steps forward, a foggy, wavering black form, and bumps its nose against his arm. The spell snaps and it _hurts;_ Stiles collapses back against the tree with a gasp, his ears ringing. The forest is suddenly too loud; he can hear the wolves now, can hear the swish of their tails against the leaves, the soft sound of their breathing. One huffs, tosses its head. He's too scared to notice anything else.

"Please don't eat me," he begs. He hiccups, tears pulling at his eyes again. He scrambles in the leaves, but there's nothing but twigs, nothing he can use to protect himself. 

One of the wolves moves forward, and for a moment it's like the spell's working again, because the wolf goes blurry around the edges, stretching upward until suddenly it's not a wolf; it's a naked woman, dark-haired like his mom. She kneels down in front of him, her face concerned, and she says, "What are you doing out here, sweetheart?"

Stiles avoids looking at her, embarrassed by her nakedness and his fright. "I - " His mouth trembles, eyes sweeping around to look at the wolves before he glances at the woman. "I want my dad," he whispers, scared. 

The woman reaches out, smooths her hand over his hair. "How old are you?"

"Ten," Stiles says, and then he starts to cry; not the noisy kind, but the near-silent crying of true, hollow misery, deep, wracking sobs that steal his breath and make him cry all the harder.

"Oh, that won't do," the woman says kindly. She gets to her feet, scooping Stiles up with her. He's too big to be held - Dad stopped carrying him ages ago, always complaining about his old back - but the woman carries him all the same. "We'll find your dad, sweetheart, don't worry," she says, and half of the wolves go streaming off into the trees. The others follow them as the woman begins walking in the opposite direction, her footsteps sure and silent. Stiles misses most of this, burying his sticky face against her neck, tears trickling down his cheeks. By the time lights appear in the trees - the warm, friendly lights of a house, not the pale thin lights of hunters' flashlights - Stiles is half asleep, exhausted.

The house is warm, and the woman carefully sets Stiles down, making sure he's standing on both feet before she pulls a robe from behind the front door, wrapping it around herself before she offers Stiles her hand. Stiles takes it more out of rote than anything; he's not scared now. He doesn't feel anything at all, a sad emptiness in his chest, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He wants to go to bed, but the woman leads him up a flight of stairs to a bathroom, and she makes him sit on the toilet while she draws a hot bath.

While the water fills the tub, steam curling in the air, the woman turns to look at him. "What's your name?"

"Stiles," he says quietly. There's mud on his shorts and he picks at it, swinging his heels back and forth. "Are you a witch?" For a moment, he thinks he'd dreamed of the wolves in the woods, but there are two peering curiously at him from around the half-closed bathroom door, their golden eyes reflecting the light over the sink.

"No, sweetheart," the woman says, smiling faintly. "I'm a werewolf. Are _you_ a witch?"

"I think so," Stiles says, and then he sniffs loudly. "My mom was a witch. They burned her." He blinks, and tears go spilling down his cheeks again, making his eyelashes stick together. "Dad said we had to go. He wouldn't let me take anything. People came after us, and Dad was driving really fast, and - "

"Okay, okay," the woman says soothingly, putting her hand on her knee. "It's all right, Stiles. You're safe here. I promise."

Stiles sniffs again, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Come on,” says the woman, gently urging him to his feet so she can help him pull off his shirt. “Let’s get you warm. You’ll feel better.”

Stiles should be embarrassed; he’s ten years old, and he’s been taking baths and showers by himself since he was a little kid, but there’s something comforting about the woman taking care of him. She reminds him of his mom. “Um,” he asks quietly, as she uses a washcloth to scrub the mud off his shins. “What’s your name?”

“Talia Hale,” she replies, briskly wringing out the cloth.

Stiles’ eyes slide past her, to the two wolves still watching them from the doorway. “Are you really a werewolf?” 

Talia smiles at him. “Yes,” she says simply, and holds her hand in front of her. Stiles’ eyes widen as thick claws push up from her nail beds, dark and wickedly curved. Stiles reaches out curiously and then hesitates, looking to Talia. "Be careful," she says. "They're sharp."

He touches them carefully, and they feel as real as his own short nails. Talia smiles again and the claws retract. "All of my family are werewolves," she tells Stiles. She nods toward the door, to the two wolves there. "That's my daughter Cora and my niece Malia. Girls," she adds, turning to address them. "Go get shifted and into bed, please. You guys are going to share tonight."

The wolves obediently disappear into the hallway; Stiles can hear their nails clattering on the floor. Talia turns back to him and lathers his hair up with shampoo, Stiles closing his eyes when she tells him to so she can rinse it out. He wants to ask her more questions but doesn't know where to start - and he's tired, more jelly than anything by the time Talia finishes and sets the tub draining. 

"You stay here," she says, bundling him in a thick towel. "I think my son may have some old clothes in the attic that will fit you."

"Okay," Stiles says quietly, but he begins to panic the moment Talia leaves the bathroom, fear tightening his lungs. Without the distraction of another person, Stiles remembers the terrifying flight through the woods, the flashing lights of the vehicles chasing him and his dad, his dad yelling at him to run. What happened to Dad? Will they burn him too?

He hunches into himself, breathing unsteadily, tears prickling at his eyes again. That's how Talia finds him when she returns, a pile of clothing in her arms. She sets it aside when she sees him, worry washing over her face as she crouches down in front of him. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"What if they can't find my dad?" he whispers, his eyes burning. "It's my fault, because I'm a witch - "

"It's not your fault," Talia says firmly. "None of us can change the talents we're born with, Stiles, and we shouldn't be punished for them. We'll find your dad. Everything will be okay."

"But what if you don't?" Stiles presses, a tear spilling down his cheek. "I don't have anywhere to go."

"We'll help you," Talia says. "We're not going to turn you out into the cold." She swipes her thumb over Stiles' cheek, wiping the tear away. "Come on, let's get dressed. I can hear the others coming back."

Stiles sniffs loudly, but rallies valiantly to pull on a pair of too-big pajama pants and a t-shirt that threatens to fall off his shoulders, and then Talia zips his hoodie up for him, patting his cheek when she's done. Stiles can hear the others now too; the front door opens, followed by the low hum of voices. He keeps behind Talia as they go downstairs, shy in the presence of so many unfamiliar adults. They all turn to look at him, and Talia places a fortifying hand on his shoulder.

"This is Stiles," she tells the others. "He's a witch. Stiles, this is my husband Sam, my brother Peter, my daughter Laura, and my son Derek." She points them out in turn, and Stiles nods anxiously. "Any news?" Talia asks.

Talia’s husband shakes his head, observing Stiles with pale eyes as he says, "Lots of state investigators out on the main road. They were towing a truck."

"Dad has a truck," Stiles says, his voice high. It's a big drop from the seat to the ground; he's got bruises on his knee from jumping down last week.

Talia squeezes his shoulder. "That could mean anything," she says, and seems to be mostly talking to Sam. "What do you think?"

"I think you should call Parrish," Sam says pointedly. 

"Hm," Talia says thoughtfully. She looks down at Stiles, runs her hand over his hair. "How would you like to be our guest tonight, Stiles?"

"Okay," Stiles says hesitantly. "But Dad - "

"We'll keep looking for him," Talia says gently. "Don't worry."

She leads him back upstairs and into a dimly lit bedroom containing two twin beds, one of which is occupied by two girls who must be the wolves who were in the hallway, just shapes in the darkness. Talia peels back the covers on the other bed for him, waiting for him to climb in before tucking them back around him. 

“Get some sleep,” she says softly. “You were very brave tonight.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says politely. 

“We’ll find your dad,” Talia says firmly, and gets to her feet. “Good night, Stiles.”

“Good night,” he whispers, and watches her leave the room, gently closing the door behind her. Almost immediately, the two girls in the other bed roll over to peer at him curiously.

“Your name’s Stiles?” one of them whispers. “That’s a weird name.”

“Malia!” hisses the other - Cora. “Don’t be mean.”

“It’s not my real name,” Stiles says, offended. 

“What’s your real name, then?” Malia retorts.

“Stanislaw,” Stiles says, proud he can finally pronounce it correctly. “It’s Polish.”

Malia’s quiet for a moment, and then she decides, “That’s even weirder.”

Stiles looks up at the ceiling, not sure how to respond. Everything goes a little fuzzy as tears swell in his eyes again, and he knuckles them away angrily, embarrassed; he’s ten years old, a _big kid,_ too old to cry. 

_“Malia,”_ Cora whispers, horrified. “Look what you did!”

“I didn’t!” Malia protests, but after a moment, she pushes the blankets aside and darts across the room, hovering next to Stiles’ bed. “I’m sorry!” she whispers. “Your name isn’t weird!”

“It - it’s not that,” Stiles mumbles, covering his eyes. It’s everything; it’s worrying about his dad, and it’s the fright of being chased through the woods, and it’s this strange house full of unfamiliar people. 

“Don’t cry,” Malia says plaintively, prodding at his arm. When that doesn’t help, she scrambles onto the bed and pushes her way under the blankets with him - over his watery protests. “Don’t cry,” she repeats, cuddling up against his side. Cora appears on his other side, climbing into the bed with them. Stiles is so astounded by this odd development that he does indeed stop crying; eventually, he falls asleep sandwiched between the two of them, comforted by their closeness.

-

In the morning, Stiles rises with the girls and cautiously trails them downstairs to the dining room, where Talia serves them fluffy blueberry pancakes. Cora and Malia chatter cheerfully around mouthfuls of pancakes, but Stiles eats silently, shy; they share the table with Talia’s son Derek, who looks old enough to be in high school, and sits with a very surly look on his face. Stiles wants to ask Talia about his dad, but she’s bustling in and out of the room; at one point, she crosses the room with a basket full of laundry, so Stiles remains silent. When they’re done eating, Cora and Malia head for the back door, but Stiles stays where he is, not sure what to do.

“Stiles!” Malia yells. “Come play with us!”

Stiles looks around uncertainly, but Talia’s nowhere in sight, and Derek’s playing with his phone, scowling. Stiles slinks out of his seat and follows the girls outside, but he’s not much of a playmate; he crouches in the grass, most of his attention focused on the house, straightening when, from somewhere on the other side of it, a car door slams. 

“It’s just Parrish,” Cora says dismissively, but Stiles straightens even further; he remembers that name. Talia’s husband had said it last night. Could he have something to do with Dad?

Sure enough, after a few minutes, Talia opens the back door and calls out, “Stiles, can you come in here for a minute?” and Stiles scrambles toward the house. 

He slows inside; Parrish is a police officer, gun at his hip. He smiles at Stiles, but Stiles just looks at Talia, scared. Is Parrish here to arrest him?

“Stiles, this is Deputy Parrish,” Talia tells him. “He’s got some news about your dad.”

Parrish crouches down so he can look into Stiles’ eyes. “Your dad’s okay, Stiles,” he says carefully, “but he’s in trouble. He’s been arrested for trying to get you to safety, and he could be going to jail.”

“To jail?” Stiles repeats, his voice wavering. “But he didn’t hurt anyone!”

“He broke the law, sweetheart,” Talia says, crouching down next to Parrish, her face soft. “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” Stiles asks frantically. “What’s going to happen to _me?”_

“We aren’t going to let anything happen to you,” Talia says.

Parrish says, “I’m going to get you guys inside tonight so you can talk to him, okay?"

"I can see him?" Stiles asks. "But what if someone catches me?"

"No one's going to catch you; Parrish is going to make sure of that," Talia tells him.

"We take care of our own in this town," Parrish says, and for a moment his eyes glow orange. Stiles' own eyes go wide; he steps sideways into Talia, nervous. She puts a comforting arm around his shoulder. "You're not the first witch we've had to protect."

"Okay," Stiles says nervously, but he feels better, knowing he's going to see his dad later. When Talia shoos him back outside, he scrounges up the energy to play with Cora and Malia this time around, even though it seems like he can never win at tag. It only occurs to him later that it's probably not fair, playing with werewolves.

He gets through most of the day all right, though he's dancing with nerves by the time dinner rolls around, anxious to see his dad. Talia and her husband ask him lots of questions, trying to get to know him, and he answers them as best he can, but he’s distracted, bouncing around in his seat. They have to wait until late to go see his dad; Stiles is yawning by the time Talia tells him it's time to go, but he's quick to follow her out to her car.

The family lives at the end of a dirt road deep in the woods; as they drive, Talia explains that the land has belonged to their family for generations. Her brother Peter and Malia live in a smaller house a couple hundred yards down the road, and Laura and her husband are building a house across from them. They live so far away from town so their secret stays safe, Talia tells him, which means that Stiles will be safe too.

It's dark out by the time they reach the police station, and the building is deserted except for Parrish, who's waiting to open the door for them. He leads them to an interview room, and when he unlocks the door, Stiles is overjoyed to see his father sitting there, looking tired but whole.

"Dad!" he yelps, dashing into the room, and his dad catches him gladly, swinging him up off his feet.

"Oh, buddy," Dad sighs against his hair. "God was I worried about you. I'm so sorry."

"I'm okay," Stiles says tremulously. He glances anxiously toward Talia and Parrish, watching them from the doorway. "We can go, right? We can still leave?"

Dad follows his gaze and his brow furrows, sorrow softening his face. "No, son, I can't," he says gently. "I messed this up good and proper. The state knows I'm here now; if I leave, that means these good people will get in trouble, and that's not fair."

Stiles stares at him, horrified. "But you can't go to jail," he says, tears burning in his eyes. "You can't, Dad! We have to take care of each other! Mom made us promise!"

"I know," Dad says, his own eyes glimmering wetly. "I know, and I tried, Stiles. I tried to keep you safe. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Stiles buries his face against his father's chest and cries bitterly, his small hands fisted in his father's shirt. Behind him, Talia moves into the room and gently asks, "Is there somewhere we can take him? Any family?"

"No," Dad says, rubbing his big hand up and down Stiles' back. "He’s all I’ve got." His voice trembles a little when he says this. “I don’t know what to do.”

"He can stay with us," Talia says, without even passing. "For as long as he needs to."

"Ma'am, I can't ask that of you," Dad says. "Parrish told me about your family, so I know what you are - but I don't know how long it will be. Max sentence is ten years; I can’t ask you to - "

"He can stay with us," Talia repeats, interrupting him smoothly. "I promise you no harm will ever come to him."

Dad's quiet for a moment and then he says, "But I don't have any money. I can't - "

"If Parrish has told you about my family, then you know money isn't an issue," Talia says easily. “We’ve got the space.”

“You don’t even know us,” Dad says, his voice hoarse. “Why would you do this?”

Stiles, hiccuping quietly, turns his head in time to see Talia smile sadly. “There’s something wrong with our world when the government tries to hunt down a ten-year-old, and arrest his father for trying to keep him alive, don’t you think? Werewolves know what it feels like to be hunted. No one should suffer that, least of all a child.”

“Too right,” Dad murmurs, holding Stiles a little tighter.

“We watch out for each other,” Talia continues softly. “We’ll teach him control, so he can live freely without being discovered. We’ll give him safety and stability while you’re gone - and you’ll know where to find him when you come back.”

Dad’s quiet for a while, still absently rubbing his hand up and down Stiles’ back. “What do you think?” he asks after a while, directing his question at Stiles. “I know it’s not ideal, but I don’t know what else to do.”

Stiles sniffs. “They’re nice,” he says miserably. He doesn’t want the Hales, though; he wants his dad. “It’s not fair,” he whispers.

“I know, bud,” Dad sighs. “Believe me. I know.”

Leaving his dad at the station hurts worse than almost anything Stiles has felt in his life, almost as much as the morning they took his mom. He cries the entire way back to the house, cries until he passes out in exhaustion, and when he wakes up he’s in the girls’ room, sandwiched between Malia and Cora again. 

He’s miserable about Dad for days, especially as time passes without any news. Slowly, though, Stiles begins to adjust to living with the pack. It’s not easy; Stiles is used to being the only kid in the house, just him and his dad, but now there are always people around, other kids wanting his attention, and it’s too much sometimes, overwhelming. Talia converts a guest bedroom into a room of his own, and he’s grateful to retreat to it sometimes, even if he’s never left alone there for long. He spends a lot of time there the first week; Talia’s nervous about letting him go outside with state witch hunters still searching the woods for him. 

Stiles gets to know the various members of the Hale family. Talia is what they all call the alpha, the leader of the pack, and she’s kind but sometimes strict. Her husband Sam is almost the opposite; he looks serious most of the time, but he’s quick to laugh, loves to play with the kids, swinging one of them over his shoulder as they laugh and shriek in protest. Laura’s much the same, her dark eyes sparkling with good humor. She’s pregnant, and she lets Stiles touch her stomach, laughing at the way his eyes go wide when he feels her baby move. Derek’s a moody tenth grader; he spends most of his time in his room or out with his friends, and pays little attention to Stiles, who finds him a little intimidating.

He sees Talia’s brother Peter less often, which is okay with him because Peter treats everything like a joke and Stiles isn’t much in the mood for jokes in the first few weeks at the house. Malia, however, is Peter’s daughter, and she’s at the house almost all the time, attached at the hip with Cora. She doesn’t have a mom either, and she and Stiles bond over their loss. 

Cora’s what Talia likes to call a firecracker, fierce and energetic. It takes Stiles longer to feel comfortable around her than it does with Malia, but when they do click, the three of them are inseparable, their friendship instrumental in helping Stiles through those first few rough weeks when he’s homesick and missing his dad ferociously. 

He’s startled to learn that the Hales aren’t the only werewolves in town; Talia’s pack encompasses many families, with kids ranging from babies to teenagers and older. There are four kids Stiles' age, and they're over at the house all the time. Stiles has never had so many friends; none of the parents in his old town would let their kids come near the kid whose mother had been burned for witchcraft. A boy named Scott is Stiles' favorite of all of them; they get into so much trouble together that Talia often threatens to leave them out in the woods to fend for themselves.

By the fall, Stiles' dad has gone to trial and been found guilty; the judge gave him the maximum sentence of ten years. It's hard for Stiles to wrap his head around it but then, he never thought he'd lose his mom, either, so the fact that his dad's not going to be around is easier to deal with than it might otherwise have been. He calls once a week, and though Stiles can't talk to him because the calls might be monitored, Talia puts him on speakerphone so Stiles can hear his voice. His dad talks vaguely of things, and Talia tells him about the house and the kids and Stiles, only she gives him a code name, Thomas, and refers to him as her nephew. At the end of each call, everyone says I love you, and Stiles yells it louder than anyone else, his one chance to be heard. He knows his dad hears it because his voice always trembles a little when he says, "I love you guys too."

In September, Stiles joins the Hale children in the local school system. It's a little frightening; he's in sixth grade, a middle schooler, and the middle school is attached to the high school, so there are a lot of people to navigate around, many classrooms to find. He would have been in a new building anyway at his old school, so in a way this is better because he's got the Hales and the rest of the pack to cling to. Malia strides into school like she owns the place while Cora floats along at her side regally. Together with a red-haired girl named Lydia Martin, they rule the sixth grade, and it's easy enough to follow along in their wake. Scott convinces Stiles to join the lacrosse team with him, and Stiles has never really been all that great at sports, but Talia encourages him, says it'll be a good character builder.

The only problem is Stiles' magic. At school, he's known as one of the Hale cousins, and no one outside of the immediate family knows he can do magic, but Stiles can't control it, and he's terrified of being found out. He doesn't _know_ magic, he doesn't know spells - things just _happen_ when he's scared or upset - or even when he's happy. Once, Cora teases Derek for getting dumped by his girlfriend and he shoves her into Stiles, who falls off his chair and smacks the back of his head against the floor, and the shock of it makes him explode every lightbulb in the house. Talia's furious - she makes Derek buy all the replacement bulbs as a punishment - but she's also worried; Stiles can see it on her face when she hands him an ice pack for his head.

A week later, Talia picks him - and only him - up from school, but instead of going home, she drives them across town to a neat little home in the middle of a quiet neighborhood. There's nothing out of the ordinary about the home, but when Stiles gets out of the car he can feel something in the air, something vibrating with power. It makes his stomach ache a little bit; he drags his feet when Talia pushes him toward the house.

The door opens before they can even knock, and two dark-skinned people stand there, a man and a woman, and they watch Stiles with twin impassive expressions.

"Stiles," Talia says, her hands on his shoulders. "This is Alan and Marin. They're going to teach you magic."

Stiles' mouth falls open. He looks around, scared someone might have heard, but the neighborhood is quiet; someone somewhere is mowing their lawn, the dull drone of the lawnmower filling the air. "What if we get caught?"

"We won't be caught," Marin says, and Alan says, "And by the time we're done with you, you'll know how to hide yourself in plain sight, like we do."

Talia takes him to the house one day a week after school, and at ten am every Sunday so he can spend the day with the odd siblings. They teach him everything they know; Marin teaches him the history of magic and the _why_ \- how it's all possible. Alan teaches him the practical side; how to mix herbs and speak words of power. They test him, push his control - and it works. Only two months after starting his lessons with them, Stiles gets shoved into a bank of lockers by an oversized ninth grader and he doesn't lose his cool. Nothing happens, even though his head spins, except suddenly Derek comes out of nowhere and grabs the kid by the straps of his backpack, lifting him up off his feet and slamming him against the lockers.

"Touch him again and I'll end you," Derek snarls, and the ninth grader yelps and nods furiously. When he's sped off down the hall, Derek helps Stiles to his feet and asks, "You okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, even though the whole side of his face hurts. "Thanks."

"Pack takes care of pack," Derek says fiercely, and Stiles grins, because it's the first time Derek's ever really acknowledged him, and Derek grins back.

On full moons, the whole pack shifts into wolves and run through the woods, nipping playfully at each other, chasing each other through pools of moonlight. Stiles can't change, but he runs with them anyway, laughing when Malia tackles him in tall grass, yelling with fright and glee when the whole pack chases him as one beast. When they get back to the house as the sun begins to rise, no one bothers to shift and go to bed; they all collapse together in the living room, and Stiles sleeps with them, blanketed under heavy, warm bodies, the magic of the moon still thrumming in his veins. 

As he grows older, he learns how to make himself faster and stronger with magic. He can dull the sound of his heartbeat and footsteps, and they play elaborate games of hide and seek in the woods. Once, he gets so mad at Cora for something she's done that he levitates her to the top of a tree, and only brings her down, Cora shrieking indignantly the entire way, when Talia threatens to ground him for a week; once Cora's back on the ground, Talia grounds him anyway.

As the months and years pass, he starts to forget about his old life, memories and faces blurring. All he has to remember his parents by is his dad's wallet, which Parrish gave to him the night he last saw his dad, and inside it is a family photo of him and his parents shot just weeks before his mom was taken away. When he was young, he slept with it under his pillow and pulled it out often, but now it lives in the drawer of his bedside table. Sometimes Talia pulls it out and props it against his lamp, but it always finds its way back to the drawer. 

Stiles resents his parents even though, rationally, he knows it’s not fair; he resents his mom for not being able to hide what she was, and he resents his dad for leaving him, even though Stiles knows that Dad was just trying to keep him alive. He misses Dad's phone calls on purpose, or leaves before they're over, and doesn't think about how much it must hurt his dad until Talia comes up to his room one day and hauls him downstairs so he can hear his dad say _I love you_. After, he goes out into the woods and blows up a tree, angry and hurt, but he doesn't miss another call.

Stiles is caught in a strange place, torn between cultivating a normal life full of homework and lacrosse and furtive crushes on classmates, while at the same time struggling to balance the power Alan and Marin teach him to harness, stronger with every passing day. The werewolves don't understand this struggle; their powers are inherent and fully ingrained with their very being - Talia has taught them impeccable control from the very beginning. There are people who hunt werewolves, Stiles learns, but they're just as unsanctioned as werewolves themselves, not like the witch hunters, employed by the state to track down and eliminate all of Stiles' kind. 

He fucks up once, during lacrosse practice: a particularly bad collision between him and another player breaks his crosse right in two and he fixes it without thinking, waving an impatient hand over the broken aluminum. He realizes what he's done a second too late, and freezes, looking around to see if anyone's noticed, and Coach Finstock has; he's staring right at Stiles, eyebrows raised, and then swings away without a word to yell at another player. Stiles is terrified for weeks, has nightmares about witch hunters showing up in the middle of the night and dragging him away, wakes up to the feeling of flames licking at his feet. He finally summons up the courage to go see Finstock in his office, ready to beg for his silence, but when he draws in a deep breath and says, "The other day - " Finstock interrupts, "I didn't see a thing, Hale. Not a thing," and then he waves his hand and the office door swings open, and winks at Stiles, who gapes at him.

When Stiles is fourteen, witch burnings are - seemingly overnight, and without much opposition - deemed unconstitutional. While the rest of the family celebrates, Stiles himself feels sick; it's six years too late for his mom. He's quiet over dinner, and afterward, when everyone else goes into the living room to watch a movie, he goes out to the front porch and sits on the porch swing, aimlessly pushing himself back and forth. He thinks about his mom, her soft hands and bright smile. They used to do crafts together; she taught him how to make rubbings from leaves, took him to the cemetery so they could trace over the inscriptions on the stones. He remembers drawing with her at the dining room table, and laughing when she made their drawings lift up from the paper and dance around before them. He doesn't know how she got caught, but he remembers the witch hunters who'd come to take her, how his dad had shoved him inside and tried to argue with the officials. How his mom had kissed Stiles' forehead and he'd felt her tears falling on his cheeks. 

Someone steps out onto the porch and Stiles hurriedly wipes at his face, embarrassed when he sees it's Talia. "You okay, sweetheart?" she asks, one hand still on the door like she's ready to disappear if Stiles wants her to.

He shrugs, and she takes that as an invitation to come sit next to him. She rubs her hand over his hair. "What are you thinking about?"

"My mom," Stiles says, and his throat tightens, so he can't say anything else.

"I see," Talia says gently, and Stiles knows she does. She loops her arm around his shoulder and Stiles lets himself be pulled to her side, settling his head on her shoulder.

They rock back and forth in silence for a while, and then Stiles says, "Thanks for taking me in."

"You don't have to thank us," Talia says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "We're grateful to have you. You're part of our family, Stiles; we love you."

"I love you too," Stiles says, squeezing his eyes shut.

"You'll always have a place here, even after your dad gets out of jail," she says. "We hope both of you will stick around."

"We will," Stiles promises, even though he has no idea what will happen between now and then. It'll be another six years before his dad gets out; Stiles will be twenty then, which seems so _old._ Derek's twenty now and he seems so _adult_ when he comes home from college; he's growing a _beard._ Stiles rubs at his chin - will he ever grow a beard? He snorts a little at the thought. He'd probably look ridiculous.

High school flies by. He has his first sexual experience with a girl and then, a couple months later, with a guy (and once at a party, amazingly, with both). He tries to get Scott drunk and ends up drunk himself, puking out Scott's bedroom window while Scott howls with laughter. He passes tests and fails others, butts heads with his chemistry teacher so often that Talia - with her most unimpressed expression on her face - has to come to the school for a meeting about it. 

He doesn’t really care about school; the more Marin and Alan teach him about magic, the more he craves to learn. His magic feels like another body inside of him sometimes, jumping and pulsing and tapping at him; he aches to use it, constantly does small spells as he goes throughout his day - opens doors, tightens his shoelaces, turns on lights, the tv, the microwave. Talia tries to discourage him, and Stiles knows it's stupid; if he were caught doing magic, for the stupid, trite spells he does, it’d make all the work the Hales and his father have done to keep himself safe worthless. 

But he feels reckless sometimes, angry and resentful that he’s lost his family, and sometimes he goes out into the woods, deep deep amongst the trees, where there’s a ring of mountain ash saplings growing, their branches woven together by his magic. The wolves can't follow him there, though none of them even try, and Stiles sometimes spends hours out there, fighting against the rage and hurt burning in his chest. Alan teaches him how to scry and later, Stiles carries a bowl out to the ring of trees and fills it with ink, and then he watches his dad stretched out on a prison bunk bed, dressed in an offensively bright orange jumpsuit as he reads a battered copy of _Old Yeller._ He looks at their old house, now occupied by some other family, and the small stone in the backyard his father had buried Stiles’ mother’s ashes under. It’s overgrown and covered in moss. Stiles cries, and then he kicks the bowl across the clearing and screams, lightning crackling over his skin. Outside the circle of trees, a pine tree splits in half.

When he’s seventeen, a senior in high school, hunters come, but not for him. Scott’s new girlfriend is a transfer student, sweet and long-legged like a doe, and one day she leans across the lunch table while Scott’s up getting napkins and says a little frantically, “You know what he is, right? My dad’s going to figure it out soon - you _have_ to help him!”

Stiles tells Talia, not sure what else to do, and her mouth thins, but she doesn’t seem as worried as Allison was - not until Sam goes missing. He’s gone three days, and life has never been more tense; Talia won't let any of them leave the house, her face drawn and pale. Stiles offers to go look for him, confident no one knows what he is, but Talia shakes her head, eyes burning red around the irises, and Stiles crams himself onto the couch between Malia and Derek. Talia leaves with Peter, forbidding the rest of them to follow; Cora tries, but the rest of them drag her back. They all huddle together like they used to when they were kids - even Laura, who _has_ a kid - and take comfort in each other’s warmth. None of them voice what they all fear: that Sam is dead, and that Talia and Peter are going to return with his body.

The hours drag by, the darkness of night wrapping around the house, but none of them get up to eat or go to bed. It’s near dawn, and Stiles is half asleep, his head on Derek’s shoulder, when he’s brought back to full consciousness by a simultaneous straightening among the werewolves, their heads turning toward the front door. 

“Three heartbeats,” Laura whispers, and that’s all they need to go scrambling en masse toward the door, bursting out onto the front porch. Talia and Peter are coming up the driveway with Sam’s limp body slung between him. Stiles is horrified at the state of him; there are crossbow bolts sticking out of his chest, and thick black liquid running from his mouth and nose. 

“Wolfsbane,” Talia says, her voice surprisingly steady. “Laura, call Alan.”

Stiles feels sick to his stomach; Alan’s taught him about the various strains of wolfsbane and their effects on werewolves. He knows it’s the werewolf hunters’ weapon of choice, but it’s a cruel, slow poison, horrendously painful. Even after Alan arrives and makes the antidote, it takes Sam nearly a week to fully recover. 

Life is tense; there’s the feeling of balancing on the edge of a cliff - at any moment, the push could come that sends them all over the edge. Talia makes them all go to school to keep appearances up, but she or one of the other adults has to drop them off and pick them up. Stiles hates it; he feels babied and smothered, and he hates the hunters for doing this to them. Scott’s girlfriend Allison, she whispers at lunch, ashamed, comes from a family of renowned werewolf hunters, but she doesn't want any part of it. 

“It’s just as bad as witch burning,” she says, her soft face upset, and Stiles sits silently, conflicted; he wants to hate her for what she is, but he knows her, _likes_ her.

“Just don't tell her about the house,” he says to Scott later.

“Of course not!” Scott says, looking offended.

Stiles doesn't think he does, but the hunters find them anyway. Maybe they followed Sam, or maybe someone in town said something - Stiles doesn't know. He’s the only one downstairs when they come; he’d fallen asleep watching tv and is stretched out on the couch. Everyone else is asleep upstairs, except for Derek, who’s out somewhere. Stiles doesn't know what wakes him; he jolts awake suddenly, from the middle of a dream, and his eyes sting. The air smells strange, and it takes his sleep-hazy brain a long moment to realize what it is: smoke.

“Fire,” he breathes, his eyes widening. He can't see where it is, but outside, it's lighting up the trees, casting the woods in sharp orange and black shadows. “Fire!” he yells, and upstairs, someone yells back.

Outside, people are talking - someone is laughing - and suddenly, all the anger and hatred and resentment that’s been building inside Stiles for years finds its focus. This is their fault; hunters - witch hunters, werewolf hunters, doesn't matter - did this to him. They took his mom and they took his dad, and now they’re trying to take his family away again, and he’s not having it.

Stiles gets to his feet, fury settling around him like a cloak. The floorboards are warm beneath his feet - they’d broken into the basement, maybe, and started the fire down there - but Stiles doesn't feel it. All the shadows in the room move with him as he walks toward the front door, swirling up his legs, stretching him up and up until he feels twenty feet tall. There are people standing on the front lawn, and they fall silent when he steps out the front door, unfolding himself down the porch. He speaks a word that makes his ears ring, and a rune appears in the air in front of him, the shape of it so black and empty it looks like a hole in space.

“What the - “ One of the men says nervously, reaching for his gun.

Stiles says another word, and another rune appears next to the first, two black voids in the air. His nose begins to bleed but he says the last word, and the world goes very still as a third rune materializes. One of the hunters fires at him, but the bullet doesn't reach him; it hits one of the runes and disappears into the blackness. Stiles looks at the hunters dispassionately, his anger distilled to a deep calm loathing, and waves his hand.

The runes shatter, and something like a shockwave blasts across the lawn. The fire in the house behind him goes out immediately, and before him, every single person crumbles, the life wiped out of them. The spell sends wind gusting through the trees beyond; Stiles can hear branches creaking, growing further and further away. Just as the sound fades entirely, his legs give way, but someone catches him before he can fall and he tilts his head back, dazed, blood rolling thickly from his nose, to see Talia holding him. There’s a strange expression on her face - gratitude mixed with sadness.

“Thank you,” she says softly, and Stiles nods, then quietly passes out.

The words of power Stiles used knock him out for three days, and when he wakes up, his mouth tastes like metal for almost two weeks. Cora tells him later that Talia scolded Alan for even _teaching_ him killing words, but Stiles doesn't feel bad about it; he’d done what he’d had to to protect his family. The fire damage is extensive, but mostly confined to the basement, and while it’s being fixed, Stiles, Marin, and Alan walk the boundaries of the property, giving it the strongest protections they can find.

He doesn't know what happened to the bodies, or what happened after; the adults don't really talk about it, and Stiles doesn't ask. It doesn't matter to him; the family’s safe. The wolves are a little weird around him, almost nervous, which bothers him more than anything; Malia says, a little hesitantly, that his scent has changed - that he smells more like magic. More like a witch. Talia keeps hugging him, rubbing her cheeks against his hair. Derek’s the most confused, as he’d missed the entire thing, but out of all of them, he treats Stiles normally, and Stiles is glad for that.

Scott is still seeing Allison; as it turns out, none of her family had even been at the house that night, and her dad actually approaches Talia in the grocery store to apologize, albeit somewhat stiffly, and somehow, after all that, life goes back to normal, like nothing ever happened. Before long, that night seems more like a dream; Stiles thinks about it often, about how the words of power had tasted in his mouth, but his near-constant urge to do magic has diminished. He feels more connected to it now, like it's part of him, two halves made whole.

Stiles and Scott and all of the rest of them graduate high school, and it's a bittersweet feeling; the pack is there, but he’d long held onto a secret hope that he’d be up on that stage and he’d turn to see his dad standing in the audience, clapping, cheering. It was a fruitless wish, he knows, but he’d still hoped.

He’s going to college; Talia and Sam had sat him down a year before and explained that they’d be paying for it - wherever he wanted to go. When he protested, Talia had smiled and said, “You're family, Stiles. We’re going to take care of you.”

There’s one long, glorious summer before they all head off to school, and they spend it happy and free, getting drunk in the woods, swimming in the reservoir, hanging out in town. He’s a month into vacation when Talia asks him to help out around the house. Stiles glances longingly toward the front door, which the rest of his friends have already streamed out of, “did I do something?” he asks plaintively. They've all got their chores; this week is his turn to mow the lawn, and he already did that.

“I just need a hand with the laundry,” Talia says with a faint smile, which is how Stiles ends up sitting with her in the living room, folding clothes. It still feels like he’s being punished for something, but as far as punishments go, it’s not bad.

“Where’s Sam?” Stiles asks as they work. He hasn't seen him since the night before, and his car’s not in the driveway.

“He’s out picking something up,” Talia replies, glancing toward the clock hanging above the tv. “He should be back any minute.” 

“Oh,” Stiles says idly. He has to resist the urge to wave his hands and get everything folded in seconds; Talia doesn't like it when he uses his magic for everyday purposes. 

Maybe five minutes later, there's the sound of a car coming up the driveway, and Talia says, “That’s Sam. Will you go see if he needs a hand?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, getting to his feet as a car door slams outside. He slips out the front door and is halfway down the front steps before he freezes, his body slow to catch up with what he sees before him. 

Sam’s just getting out of the car; it wasn't his door that Stiles heard close. It was his dad. He looks worn and tired, decades older than when Stiles last saw him, but he’s dressed neatly, his face clean shaven, and he’s staring at Stiles like he’s seen a ghost. Stiles stares back, his heart hammering in his chest, not sure what he’s seeing is real.

“Dad?” he says hoarsely. “Wh - what are you doing here?”

“Got out early for good behavior,” Dad says, and hearing his voice in the flesh, not over the phone, has Stiles shaking. He looks around wildly, afraid someone’s going to tell him this is all a dream. Malia and Scott and the rest of his friends have come around the side of the house, and they look just as surprised as Stiles feels. Talia, though, is smiling when she steps out onto the porch.

“Go on, sweetheart,” she tells him gently. “He’s real.”

That's all Stiles needs; he flies off the steps, skidding over the hood to Sam’s car, and slams into his dad, who catches him, hugs him so hard he can barely breathe.

“God,” Dad says, pressing a kiss to his temple - they’re almost the same height now, Dad a scant inch or two taller. “Jesus, you got big.”

Stiles’ throat burns. He clutches tightly at his dad’s shirt; it’s not just that he’s grown, but everything he’s experienced since he last saw his dad, everything he learned - he _killed_ people. How's he supposed to tell Dad any of that? “Missed you,” he croaks instead, and buries his face in his dad’s shoulder.

“Oh, have I missed you too, kiddo,” Dad sighs. “Sure is good to see your face.” He pulls back so he can look at Stiles, takes his face in his hands. Stiles stares back at him; his face is lined now, his blue eyes watery. “Still the spitting image of your mom.”

Stiles blinks hard, his throat aching. 

“Stiles,” Talia says gently, and Stiles twists his head to look at her. She smiles. “Why don't you invite your dad inside? You guys have a lot to catch up on.”

Stiles looks back at his dad, who smiles faintly. “I'd like meet your other family,” Dad says.

Stiles grins at that, a kind of relief flooding through him. “All right,” he says, turning to face the house. “Ready to put faces to the names?”

“Lead on,” his dad says, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Lead on.”


	94. Chapter 94

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **anonymous said:** I adore your writing! Sorry if you've already done something similar, but as a prompt: amnesia with a happy ending.
> 
>  **anonymous said:**  umm can i prompt a sterek mpreg fic please (mpreg!derek if that doesn’t bother you), an angsty one with a happy ending? or one where stiles becomes a werewolf, but like him choosing it of his own volition (he’s not hurt or sick to make him need it) maybe it’s because he wants to protect his father or have a longer life span to match derek’s?
> 
>  **anonymous said:**  Okay, I don’t have a specific prompt, but I absolutely adore how you write mpreg and angst, so if you feel like writing a fic with those things I will totally be there for that (with a happy ending though)! Honestly, I’m here for anything you write, but those are my fav.
> 
>  **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, mpreg, amnesia, feral!Derek

“One month,” Stiles groans, out of breath from the climb up the stairs. “One more freakin’ month, and then I am _never_ doing this again.”

Derek comes through the door behind him, arms laden with grocery bags, and snorts quietly as he sets them on the counter. “You promised me three,” he says.

“I did no such thing!” Stiles says, scandalized.

“You did,” Derek says solemnly. “It was our wedding night, and you were _very_ drunk.”

Stiles scowls at him. “It doesn’t count if I can’t remember. Anyway,” he says, turning to start unpacking their groceries, “if you want three kids, _you_ can carry the next two. You’re stronger than me; it’ll be easy.”

Derek leans into his side, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You’re stronger than you think you are,” he says quietly.

Stiles presses back against him, smiling faintly. “I know,” he says. “It’s all worth it, right?”

“Right,” Derek agrees, the corners of his mouth curving up. He reaches out, placing his hand on Stiles’ stomach for a moment. “You think we got enough food for the two of you?”

“You’re only going to be gone a week,” Stiles says, eyeing the food-covered counter. “I don’t think I’ll make a _dent._ ”

“Have Lydia over,” Derek says, finally making a move to start putting the groceries away. He narrows his eyes at all the food. “Maybe every night.”

Stiles laughs. “Whatever,” he says, handing Derek cold items for the fridge. “You can help me finish it off when you get back.”

Derek’s smile fades. “It could be longer than a week,” he cautions. “That’s just their estimate.”

“I know,” Stiles says. He puts his hands on his stomach and their son pushes back at him. He sighs. “I wish you weren’t going.”

Derek sighs as well. “That’s pack politics,” he says. “We made a promise to help them when we signed that treaty. We can’t just sit on our hands when they ask for help.”

“I know,” Stiles says quietly. “It’s just - he’s so close, Derek. I don’t want you to miss him.”

Derek stops putting things away, turns to face him. “I won’t,” he says gently. “I promise.”

-

The following morning, Stiles drives Derek over to Scott’s place, and watches them load up the vehicles. The pack they’re aligned with is in the middle of a violent schism, and Scott’s hoping to resolve it peacefully, but he’s bringing all the shifters, just in case. The only pack members aren’t going are Stiles, Lydia, and Mason, and normally Stiles would have insisted on going, but even he knows that walking into the middle of a pack fight while eight months pregnant isn’t the best idea. Lydia’s no stranger to battles either, but Stiles knows the reason she’s staying behind is to keep an eye on him and Mason, firmly a member of the research side of things, has no reason to go either.

As everyone else climbs into their cars, Derek pulls Stiles aside, his expression solemn. “If something happens to me,” he begins, and Stiles grimaces but Derek soldiers on. “If something happens - I just want you to know that you’ll be taken care of.”

“I know,” Stiles says dejectedly. “The pack - “

“I’m not talking about the pack,” Derek says, a little sharply. “I’m talking about _you._ There’s a copy of my will in a safety deposit box at our bank - the key’s in my nightstand.”

“You think something’s going to happen to you?” Stiles asks, almost a whisper.

“No,” Derek says steadily. “But if something does, I don’t want you to worry.”

Stiles swallows hard. “This isn’t making me feel any better about you leaving,” he says miserably.

“I’ll be fine,” Derek says, reaching out and tugging Stiles into his arms. “I just - want to be prepared.”

Stiles closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to Derek’s. “Text me when you can,” he says, “so I know you’re safe.”

“I will,” Derek promises softly. He pulls his head back, and they look at each other for a long moment, quiet, and then Derek leans back in for a long kiss, his hands gripping tightly at Stiles’ hips. And when they finally pull apart, Derek kneels down in front of him, putting both hands on Stiles’ stomach.

“Come back to us,” Stiles says, his throat tight.

“I will,” Derek promises again. He presses a kiss to Stiles’ stomach, then gets to his feet and presses another kiss to Stiles’ cheek. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Stiles says, breathing unsteadily. Derek squeezes his hand and then heads for Scott’s car. Stiles remains where he is, feet planted in the grass. There’s a cold, vast pit of fear opening in his chest; Derek’s behavior is frightening him, and he’s got this horrible feeling that something’s going to go wrong this time. He has to resist the urge to chase after them as they pull out into the street, balls his hands into fists at his sides.

Lydia steps up to his side as he stands there, eyes focused on the end of the street long after the rest of the pack’s disappeared around the corner. She loops her arm around his and lightly suggests, “Movie night at your place?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says hoarsely. He doesn’t remind her it’s nine in the morning; he doesn’t want to be alone.

-

The week passes, mostly without incident. Lydia comes over a lot, but Stiles keeps himself busy, cleaning the apartment and getting the final touches done in the nursery. They painted it a deep teal early in Stiles’ pregnancy, and then he’d decided it was too dark, so they’d changed it to a warm toffee, and Stiles likes to go in there and sit in the overstuffed armchair his dad had given them. The room gets all the afternoon sunlight, and Stiles naps there a lot, warm and safe.

Derek texts every couple of hours. He’s probably being conservative about what he says so that Stiles won’t worry more than he is, but it sounds like things aren’t going too badly; the split pack is willing to talk, at least. Derek sends him photographs - members of the pack mugging at the camera, the Oregon woods, exactly one selfie in which he looks incredibly self conscious, but seeing it makes Stiles smile.

It starts to get tough after a couple of days as his biology begins to kick in; it’s not generally recommended that a pregnant omega be out of contact with their alpha for more than a day or two, especially in the final trimester. Whatever may _actually_ be happening in the omega’s life, their instinctual need for the safety and comfort of their alpha’s presence is a call that’s hard to ignore. Stiles feels it in his chest like a physical pain, a low ache like heartburn, and their son is restless, constantly moving inside of him, keeping him awake at night.

By the end of the week, Stiles is craving Derek’s return more than ever, but the possibility that the pack’s going to be back soon is looking slim; negotiations have taken a turn for the worse, and one night Stiles is getting ready for bed when his phone buzzes with a text from Derek.

 _We’re being attacked,_ it says. _It might be a while._

 _Text me when you’re safe,_ Stiles types back swiftly, his heart hammering in his chest. _I love you._

 _I love you,_ Derek texts back. He doesn’t text again that night, no matter how late Stiles stays awake, watching his phone, waiting for the screen to light up. Their room is empty without Derek there, and Stiles feels very very small.

-

Stiles checks his phone first thing in the morning, but there’s no messages from Derek. He stares at his last text until his eyes start to burn, that vast pit of fear swallowing his heart again. He makes himself get out of bed, and he’s forcing himself to eat breakfast a he’s not particularly hungry, but the baby can’t starve - when there’s a knock on the front door.

It’s Lydia. Stiles only has to take one look at her to know something’s wrong - she never leaves home without every hair in place, but the Lydia in front of him is bare-faced and pale, dressed in sweats.

“He’s dead,” Stiles says numbly, the world falling away beneath his feet.

Lydia’s eyes widen. “No!” she says hurriedly. “No, Stiles, he’s alive! He’s okay.”

Stiles closes his eyes, forcing several deep breaths in and out of his lungs. “But?” he asks, knowing she wouldn’t be over here like this without a good reason.

Lydia hesitates. “He’s…not himself.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“He got hit by a spell,” Lydia says carefully. “Scott says - it’s like he’s gone wild.”

Stiles stares at her, numb. “What?”

“He’s still in human form,” Lydia says. “But he’s acting like a wolf.”

Stiles laughs semi hysterically. “So you’re saying that my husband is now _feral?”_

“Let’s sit down,” Lydia suggests, and they do. Stiles stares out the living room window and breathes slowly, trying to wrap his head around this. Derek is alive. Derek is alive, but he’s wild. “Is this - is there a _cure?”_ he asks Lydia.

“I don’t know,” she says, looking worried. “They’re bringing him home - I guess the fighting’s sorted stuff out.”

“Today?” Stiles says sharply.

Lydia nods. Stiles jumps to his feet, hauling his phone out of his pocket so he can call Scott. The moment Scott answers, Stiles snaps, “What does _wild_ mean, Scott? Like he doesn’t know how to use silverware or what?”

“Stiles, come on, calm down,” Scott says. “Is Lydia there?”

“She’s here and I’m fine,” Stiles says briskly. He knows why Scott told Lydia to tell him instead of telling him himself; he didn’t want Stiles to be alone when he found out, but that’s not the issue. _“What does wild mean, Scott?”_

Scott’s quiet for a long moment. “He can’t - or won’t - talk,” he says quietly. “He doesn’t recognize any of us, Stiles. I - I don’t know if he’s going to recognize you.”

Stiles stands still, his breathing growing faster, harsher.

“Stiles,” Scott says, but Stiles hangs up on him. He spins around, paces the living room, breathing hard as he tries to understand this. What’s going to happen? What’s he going to do if Derek doesn’t recognize him? What if there’s no cure for whatever’s happened to him? Stiles can’t raise their baby by himself; he _needs_ Derek.

“Stiles, sit down,” Lydia pleads.

“Don’t - I can’t - “ Stiles gestures fruitlessly, struggling with the emotions barreling through his head, overwhelmed with fear and uncertainty.

“Not just you,” Lydia says, giving his stomach a pointed look. Stiles draws in a deep, nervous breath and puts his hands on his stomach, where the baby’s kicking up a storm, unsettled. Forcing himself to breathe slowly once again, Stiles lowers himself onto the couch, rubbing his stomach comfortingly. Lydia watches him warily and then seems to decide he’s staying there, because she gets up and disappears into the kitchen. Stiles stares at his stomach, so far past worried that his mind’s gone blank; he barely notices when Lydia comes back and pushes a cup of tea into his hand - he holds onto it until it goes cold.

“Research,” he says after what feels like hours. His voice sounds far away. The baby’s pressing up against his ribs and it hurts, battling with that void in his chest. “Can we - “

“Mason’s on it,” Lydia tells him with a small smile. “You focus on you.”

Stiles shakes his head violently. “No, I need - a distraction. Please?”

Lydia watches him for a moment, considering, and then she nods. “I’ll tell him to come over.”

Mason’s there within half an hour, ferrying boxes of books up the stairs. Stiles gratefully loses himself in research, turning page after page. The day wears on and Stiles tries not to count down the hours until the pack should be back; it’s a seven hour journey, and as the end grows near, Stiles grows restless, constantly looking over at Lydia to see if she’s received any word from Scott. Maybe, he hopes, the spell will wear off on its own - maybe it’s already worn off, and Derek hasn’t called because he’s been asleep the whole way.

Finally, Lydia gets a text from Scott and she meets Stiles’ eyes. “Scott wants us to go to his place.”

She won’t let Stiles drive, which is probably for the best. Scott meets them on the front lawn; he looks exhausted.

“Where is he?” Stiles demands.

“In the basement,” Scott says wearily, and throws out his hand to stop Stiles from darting around him. “Stiles, listen,” he says. “He’s not Derek. He’ll try to rip your throat out if you get too close. Just - “

“He’ll remember me,” Stiles says firmly, with a lot more confidence than he feels. He rubs his hands over his stomach and thinks, scared, _he has to._

As soon as Stiles steps into the house, he can hear Derek down in the basement, snarling so deep in his chest it’s almost a rumble, but he doesn’t even pause, heading for the basement stairs. The pack’s waiting at the bottom, and Stiles doesn’t look at them, not wanting the pity he sees on their faces. He steels himself and lifts his head to see Derek chained between two support beams, crouched there on the cement floor with dirty bare feet, his eyes glowing bright blue.

“Derek,” Stiles says firmly. “It’s me. Come on, get up.”

Derek snarls again, his fangs dropped long and wickedly sharp in his mouth. His claws are out too, but Stiles isn’t scared of him; he’s scared of what happens if Derek doesn’t came back.

“Derek,” he says again, stepping closer. He crouches down in front of Derek as best he can, grimacing at the awkwardness of it. Derek’s eyes track his movements, but when he meets Stiles’ eyes, Stiles is profoundly shaken by the lack of recognition he sees there - the lack of any human spark at all. “Derek,” he whispers. “Come on, come _on._ You know me. You know _us_ – “ He puts a hand on his stomach. “This is our baby. You promised you’d be here for him!”

Derek doesn’t even blink; his lips are peeled back from his teeth in a silent snarl - he gives no indication that he’s understood a word of what Stiles has said.

“Please,” Stiles says desperately, reaching for him. “Derek - ”

Derek snarls and swings a handful of claws at him; someone behind Stiles grabs him by the collar and yanks him backward, though not soon enough - Derek’s claws score four long marks down Stiles’ shin, which begin bleeding immediately. Stiles barely feels it; he sits on the stairs while Malia bandages his leg, and it feels like his whole body is wrapped in gauze, his mind numb. Most of the pack trickles away after a while, at a loss for what to do, and eventually it’s just Scott and Stiles sitting on the stairs, watching Derek pull at his chains.

“I thought he’d know,” Stiles says miserably. “I thought - don’t I _smell_ familiar?”

“We’ll figure something out,” Scott says softly. “It can’t be permanent.”

“What if it is?” Stiles asks dully. “What are we supposed to do? Keep him chained up down here forever?”

“It’s not going to be forever,” Scott says, but Stiles knows he doesn’t know that, not for sure. Scott gives him a one-armed hug and then gets to his feet. “Come on,” he says, offering Stiles his hand. “Let’s give him some space. Maybe it’ll wear off overnight.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

“Stiles,” Scott says gently, clearly ready to persuade him otherwise, but Stiles gets in first.

“You don’t understand,” he says flatly. “We’re mated. With the baby, it hurt like hell while you guys were gone. I can’t - I _have_ to be near him.”

“Okay,” Scott says, his face softening. “You want a chair or something?”

Stiles gets a chair and then later, when evening settles in, Scott sets him up a camp bed. It’s uncomfortable, but Stiles refuses to leave. It doesn’t matter that Derek doesn’t recognize him, or that he growls every time Stiles tries to go near him (and he tries over and over, hoping beyond hope that _this_ _time_ will be different). Being near Derek is - it’s not _great,_ because Stiles yearns to touch him, to feel his love, but it’s better than when they were apart. He talks to Derek, keeps his voice low, and tries not to be discouraged by the way that even though Derek will turn to watch him speak, there’s no recognition in his face - not of Stiles, or that he even understands what he’s saying.

Stiles falls asleep watching Derek pace back and forth, pausing every so often to pull on his chains angrily. The claw marks on Stiles’ leg throb painfully.

-

Derek’s still wild when Stiles wakes. He growls when Scott offers him a plate of breakfast, and doesn’t stop until they’ve gone upstairs. Stiles sits silently, jiggling his leg anxiously as the rest of the pack discusses possible solutions - but when it really comes down to it, no one really knows _what_ to do. Scott says he’ll go talk to Dr. Deaton and asks if Stiles wants to come along, but Stiles shakes his head; he doesn’t want to leave Derek, not like this. That leaves the rest of them to sit around and do their own research.

Stiles tries, for a while, flipping through book after book, but there’s a headache gathering behind his eyes, and eventually he gives up. He goes down to the basement instead. Derek growls at him, his eyes still blazing neon blue.

“Yeah, real scary, bud,” Stiles sighs, carefully lowering himself down onto the cot. He grimaces; Scott had piled it with as many blankets as he could find, but it still wasn’t all that comfortable. Better than Derek, Stiles supposed, looking over this husband. Scott had left him blankets too, but they didn’t look like they’d been used. Probably Derek didn’t know what to do with them. He’d only eaten half of his breakfast - just the sausage, not the English muffins.

“You know you can eat bread, right?” Stiles says to him, and Derek tilts his head. “You’re not actually a carnivore.” He sighs again. Of all the things that have ever happened to them, this has got to be the worst. “I love you,” he tells Derek, who looks at him blankly. Stiles shuts his eyes and goes to sleep.

Scott’s back when Stiles wakes up in the late afternoon. He tells Stiles that Deaton isn’t sure what spell Derek’s under, and trying to fix it with another spell could get him stuck this way permanently. “He wants us to wait a week or two and see if it wears off on its own,” Scott says, looking a little nervous.

Stiles buries his head in his hands. “What sort of fucking assholes cast a spell like this,” he mutters.

“Ones who wants to create chaos,” Scott says, rubbing his back. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles scrubs his hands over his face, feeling like he’s a thousand years old. “Can you take me home so I can grab some stuff? If you don’t mind me setting up camp in your basement, that is.”

“Of course not, dude,” Scott says sympathetically. “You can stay as long as you want.” He hesitates, then adds, “If this doesn’t wear off before the baby comes, you know we’ll help you out in any way we can, man.”

“I know you will,” Stiles says wearily. He looks across the table to Kira, who smiles at him encouragingly. “Thank you.”

-

That night, Stiles stretches out on the camp bed and props a children’s book up against his stomach. He’s read to the baby almost every night of his third trimester, and he’s not going to stop now. The baby likes it; he always goes still when Stiles reads, like he’s listening very hard. Derek’s usually there too, head on his shoulder as they lay in bed. Right now, he’s pacing again, shoulders tense, but Stiles ignores him and starts to read.

Halfway through the book, Stiles realizes it’s gone very still in the basement, and he looks past the book to see Derek crouched as close as he can get, watching Stiles intently. For the first time in what feels like weeks, Stiles smiles. He returns to reading, but keeps an eye on Derek, who remains stock-still until Stiles finishes. He remains where he is for a moment, as if waiting for Stiles to continue, but when Stiles doesn’t, he stretches to his full height and resumes pacing.

“You goof,” Stiles tells him fondly.

The reading at night is the only bright spot in a week that grows steadily worse and worse. Derek doesn’t get better. Stiles has to go to a doctor’s appointment without him; when his doctor asks where he is, Stiles has to smile brittlely and say, “He couldn’t get off work.” Stiles himself stopped working two weeks before everything happened, and not having anything to do with his time is slowly beginning to drive him crazy. Other members of the pack drop by Scott’s house when they can, and they’ll sit for a while, fruitlessly flipping through books they’ve already scoured.

Derek stops growling at anyone who comes downstairs, but he still won’t let anyone near him - though he retreats now instead of attacking. Stiles does everything he can think of; he wears Derek’s clothes, and he brings over their bedding, and it comforts him a little, but Derek doesn’t seem to _get_ it. The only time he seems to really notice Stiles is when he’s reading to the baby, but Stiles can’t tell if it’s because he’s being noisy or if Derek actually likes it. Whatever the case, he’s starting to lose hope Derek’s going to get his memory back. Stiles misses him like mad; Derek’s mere feet away from him, but like this, he met as well be a thousand miles away.

Scott makes him leave the house one night, dropping him off at his dad’s house so they can have dinner together. His dad knows about the situation, but it’s clear he’s not sure how to talk about it; he keeps asking Stiles about plans for the baby and then wincing, and overall it’s a much less relaxing night than Scott probably hoped it’d be for him, but Stiles appreciates the effort. And when Scott brings him back to the house, he goes downstairs to discover that someone’s forced Derek into a bath and fresh clothes. Derek’s sulking about it, hair still wet, and Scott laughs when he says, “Yeah, he didn’t really enjoy that, but at least he’s clean, right?”

Stiles decides to try something new that night. Instead of reading on the bed, he very carefully gets himself sitting on the floor just out of Derek’s reach. Derek watches him warily, but Stiles pretends not to see him lurking behind one of the beams, instead opening a book and beginning to read. He keeps an eye on Derek, though, and bites back a grin when Derek starts creeping closer. He stops a couple feet away, still well within the range of his constraints, but he stays there the entire time, listening to Stiles read.

The next night, Stiles repeats his experiment, and this time Derek comes right to the edge of his tether. He’s barely a foot and a half from Stiles, so close Stiles can hear his breathing, soft and even, and he doesn’t move when Stiles finishes reading. Stiles closes his eyes for a moment after he shuts the book, and then carefully says, “Hey, Der.”

Derek tilts his head, listening. Stiles swallows hard, suddenly overwhelmed by how much he misses him. He misses the life sparkling in his eyes, the good humor hidden in his face, his confidence and intelligence and snark.

“I know you’re in there,” he whispers, his eyes burning. “I _know_ it. Please come back to me. I need you, Der - I can’t do this by myself.”

Derek gazes back at him, his brow furrowing.

“Come back,” Stiles says again, and his voice breaks on _back_ , a tear spilling down his cheek unbidden. “Fuck,” he mumbles, swiping at his cheek. Derek makes a low noise nothing like anything Stiles has heard from him - it sounds sad, worried - and his hand stretches out, fingers brushing against Stiles’ ankle. Stiles’ breath hitches. “I love you,” he says, his voice wavering. When he puts his hand over Derek’s, Derek doesn’t move away.

-

The next night, Stiles has to go back to their apartment and sleep in his own bed because the camp bed is killing him, and his back feels about ready to give out. Apart from not wanting to leave Derek, this doesn’t seem like it’ll be a problem, except Scott knocks on his door in the middle of the night, and when Stiles sleepily answers, Scott groans, “Dude, you have to come back. He won’t stop _howling.”_

“What?” Stiles says, unamused.

“I think he misses you,” Scott says.

When they pull down the street, Stiles can hear it from half a block away, Derek’s melancholy howling echoing down the quiet street. “Your poor neighbors,” he says.

“I’m going to get the cops called on me,” Scott says mournfully. Stiles is quietly embarrassed because he may be feral, but that’s his freakin’ _husband_ waking up everyone in the neighborhood. “I think he knows who you are, on some level,” Scott says. “Even if he’s not aware of it.”

Sure enough, Derek’s howling cuts off the moment Stiles steps into the house, and he heads for the basement with a resigned sigh. “Just what do you think you’re doing, making all that racket?” he scolds as he comes down the steps, and Derek actually looks _ashamed._

“Told you!” Scott shouts down the stairs, and Stiles can’t help but feel a little smug at the thought that Derek still wants him around even when he’s wild.

“Still got it,” he tells Derek, finger-gunning at him, and Derek makes that sad noise he’d made the night before. He makes it again as Stiles gets into bed, coming right to the end of his chain to watch him. “What?” Stiles asks him. “Are you - oh.” His eyes fall on the pile of books by the bed. “You want a bedtime story?”

It’s like three in the morning, but fuck it. Stiles pushes himself back out of bed and settles instead on the cold cement floor. Derek crouches down next to him, so close this time that Stiles can feel the heat of his body - can _smell_ him; Stiles inhales deeply, his insides aching at his familiar scent. He reads slowly, wanting to draw it out, though as he reads he wonders if this is as good as it’ll get; will he spend the rest of his life like this? If Derek knew, he surely wouldn’t want Stiles to stick around for him, right? He’d been so sure about the will, telling Stiles he and the baby would be taken care of. Maybe it would have been better if Derek _had_ died, so Stiles isn’t teased by the sight of him every day, a stranger in his husband’s body.

Stiles blinks fiercely against the burning in his eyes as he finishes the book, closing the cover. Derek makes a soft noise, and to Stiles’ surprise, he reaches out and touches Stiles’ stomach. “Mine?” he wonders out loud, his voice hoarse.

Stiles exhales sharply. “Jesus,” he says faintly, and Derek starts to pull his hand back, looking worried, but Stiles grabs his wrist, pulls his hand back and puts it on his stomach. “No,” he says, his mouth dry. “Ours.”

Derek’s eyes settle half closed; he looks content. “Ours,” he repeats. “Ours.”

-

Two nights later, Stiles is on the floor reading to Derek and their baby when he starts cramping and he has to pause, breathing in sharply. This is is far from the first time - he’s been getting Braxton Hicks contractions for weeks - but it’s always startling, and never comfortable. Derek makes a worried noise, touches his knee, and Stiles breathes, “It’s okay, I promise. Everything’s fine.”

Derek doesn’t seem to believe him; even after Stiles has resumed reading and finished the book, he’s restless as Stiles sinks down onto the camp bed, pacing and whining high in his throat. Stiles sighs, twisting around to watch him. “I’m okay, really,” he says, but Derek still reaches for him, stretched to the very limit of his chains.

Stiles sits up but hesitates there, chewing at his lip speculatively. It should be okay, he thinks. He’s pretty sure Derek’s not going to go anywhere.

He slips off the bed and crosses the room to Scott’s workbench. The keys to the padlocks securing Derek’s chain are in a drawer, and Stiles draws them out quietly, feeling like a thief. Derek follows his movements with interest. He doesn’t seem to get it at first, that he’s no longer tethered, but when Stiles backs away toward the camp bed and Derek follows, Stiles can see the realization on his face when he can come all the way over without being stopped.

“There,” Stiles tells him, sitting on the bed. “Now you can make sure I’m safe, okay?”

Derek hovers over him curiously as Stiles settles himself back into bed, and Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “Are you seriously going to watch me all night?”

Derek huffs at him.

“What do you _want,_ then?” Stiles asks peevishly. Derek nudges at his back. _“What?”_ But then - “Oh.” Stiles gets it; Derek wants to share his bed. He wants to be close, and Stiles wants that too, desperately, but he doesn’t know - is this taking advantage of Derek somehow? All of their usual boundaries - or lack thereof - don’t apply here; he doesn’t know what to do. “There’s no room up here,” he tells Derek.

Which is how, somehow, he ends up on the floor, surrounded by a nest of blankets as Derek settles down next to him, looking content. His body’s going to hate him tomorrow, already in enough trouble as it is over the cot, but it’s worth it for the way Derek fits up against his back like he was made to be there, one heavy arm looped over him. Maybe this is all he’ll ever get from Derek, but for now, it’s enough; for the first time in weeks, Stiles sleeps easy, and dreams of nothing.

-

“Stiles?”

Something’s tickling at his cheek and Stiles slaps it away tiredly.

“Stiles.”

“Mm,” Stiles grumbles. Fuck, his hips hurt from sleeping on the floor.

 _“Stiles,”_ Derek says impatiently. “Why are we sleeping in Scott’s basement?”

Stiles’ eyes shoot open, and he flips himself over in one great heave of effort, his whole body screaming in protest. “You know who I am?”

“Yes,” Derek says, looking confused.

“You know who you are?” Stiles presses.

“Yes,” Derek says again, his brow furrowing. “Why - ”

“Thank _fuck,”_ Stiles swears, and kisses him frantically.

To his credit, Derek rolls with it, sliding a hand over his hip and kissing him back contentedly, but when they pull apart, he still asks, “What’s going on?”

Stiles draws in a deep breath, so happy and relieved he has a little trouble getting his thoughts together, but he tells Derek what happened. By the end, Derek’s looking stricken, and some of Stiles’ happiness has worn off, his eyes stinging.

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles tells him. “We all know the hazards of being in the pack. I knew, marrying you, that there was a chance that someday something might happen to one of us.”

“But that was before you got pregnant,” Derek says, the corners of his mouth turning down. “We’re going to be parents. I can’t - if this happens again - “

“Don’t say it,” Stiles says. “You came back to me, just like you promised.”

Derek doesn’t say anything; he reaches out and puts his hand on Stiles’ stomach, rubbing back and forth on his warm skin - the baby pushes back excitedly; Stiles is pretty sure he knows it’s Derek. Stiles curls in closer to him, kisses his forehead, threads his fingers through Derek’s soft hair.

“I don’t smell like you anymore,” Derek grumbles.

“We can fix that,” Stiles murmurs. “‘Course, you’re going to have to carry me out of here, because I’ve lost all sensation in my legs from sleeping on cement.”

Derek huffs out a grudging laugh. “Come on, then,” he says, getting stiffly to his feet. “I’ll give you a massage when we get home.”

“You spoil me,” Stiles says, groaning when Derek helps him upright, steadying him when his body wants to wobble.

Derek pauses to look at him, lifting a hand to touch Stiles’ cheek, his thumb sweeping along Stiles’ cheekbone. “For as long as I can,” he says quietly, and Stiles’ heart twists at the insinuation that a someday’s going to come where Derek _won’t_ be around to spoil him.

“Where you go, I go,” Stiles says firmly. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” Derek says, and offers him a faint smile. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”


	95. Chapter 95

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A b-day present for my beloved blacktofade!**  
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, mpreg, kidfic, ABO, light angst

Stiles pulls up in front of the school, joining the long line of other parents waiting to pick up their kids. He’s a little early, and it’s a nice day, not hot enough to require the AC, so he rolls down the window and shuts off the car, letting the background hum of traffic surround him. He sits for a moment, gaze far away, and then he lifts his hips, pulling the piece of paper from his back pocket. He stares at it for a long moment and then reaches for his phone, swiftly dialing a well-known number.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says, after it’s rang and rang and then gone to voicemail. Stiles breathes in slowly. “I saw the doctor this afternoon. She says it’s fourteen weeks. The due date’s right around your birthday. Um.” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s too early to figure out the gender, but she says it looks healthy, so, uh, that’s good. I've got another appointment on the first. Nine AM. I don't know when you’re getting back but, um. It’d be nice if you were there.” He pulls the phone away from his ear and his thumb hovers over the _end call_ button for a moment before he puts the phone back to his mouth. “I miss you,” he says, and hangs up.

From inside the school, a bell rings, and kids start streaming out the front doors a moment later, laughing and whooping. Stiles hurriedly shoves the photo back into his pocket and straightens, smiling when he catches sight of Callie trotting toward the car, her fair hair bouncing off her shoulders.

“Hey baby girl,” he says as she clambers into the back seat. “Congrats on making it through your first year of school!”

“It’s just kindergarten,” Callie says, buckling herself into her booster seat. “It’s not _hard_ , Dad.”

“Fine,” Stiles says flippantly, turning to start the car. “I guess we don't need to stop for ice cream, then. I thought it might be a nice reward, but if school was so _easy…”_

Callie’s silent for a long moment as the car pulls away from the curb, and then she says, “It was a little hard.”

Stiles grins. “That’s my girl.”

-

Lydia comes over later that evening. Callie’s in the living room, watching a movie in a dazed sort of ice cream coma while Stiles washes the dishes from dinner. He answers the door when Lydia knocks, and frowns at the bottle of merlot in her hands.

“This is for me,” Lydia says, cradling the bottle to her chest protectively, like she’s afraid Stiles is going to try to take it away. He rolls his eyes and steps back so she can come inside, closing the front door as she sticks her head into the living room. “Hi, Callie.”

“Hi Aunt Lydia,” Callie murmurs. Stiles pokes his head into the room as well, grinning when he sees the lump she’s become on the couch, just a bump covered in blankets and a scattering of popcorn.

In the kitchen, Lydia pours herself a glass of wine while Stiles finishes the dishes, patiently waiting for him to dry his hands as the last of the dirty water drains from the sink before asking, “So what’s the news?”

Stiles pulls the sonogram from his pocket and hands it to her. “Cute,” she says, and actually appears to mean it, which makes Stiles smile a little; he knows Lydia has basically zero interest in children, but he appreciates her trying to pretend like she does. Lydia slides the piece of paper back to him. “Have you heard from him?”

Stiles’ smile fades. “No,” he says. “Not since he left.”

Lydia swirls the wine in her glass around, biting at her lip. “This is my fault,” she says.

“How do you figure that?” Stiles asks, raising his eyebrows.

“You two never would have met if I hadn't gotten you the job as Laura’s assistant,” Lydia says, looking unhappy.

“Spare me,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “You didn't make him into a spoiled manchild, did you?”

“No,” Lydia says, her lips thin. “You can blame his mother for that.” Her phone rings, and Lydia sighs. “Speak of the devil. Hold on.” She sets down her wine glass and sits up a little bit straighter as she answers the phone; it’s amazing, Stiles thinks, how you can almost _see_ her turn on her professional side. “Yes, Mrs. Hale?” she asks, then tilts her head, listening. After a moment she says, “I haven't seen him today, but I’ll make sure to tell him.” Her eyes slide to Stiles; he sticks his tongue out at her. The corners of her mouth twitch. “Yes, ma'am. Have a good night.”

“She still after me?” Stiles asks, leaning against the counter.

“She would like to talk to you,” Lydia says primly, and then she picks up her wine glass again and her executive assistant hat comes off. “She probably wants to give you hush money so you won't tell anyone it’s a Hale baby.”

“Or she wants me to abort it,” Stiles says quietly.

Lydia’s brow furrows and she reaches across the counter to put her hand over Stiles’. _“Are_ you keeping it?” she asks softly.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes. “I can't — I just don't have it in me to do that.” He tosses a sad smile toward the living room. “And Callie’s been asking about a sibling anyway.”

“You're a good dad,” Lydia says, squeezing his hand. “But you aren't going to be able to avoid Talia forever. I can try to keep you off her schedule, but you know her — eventually she’s just going to schedule a meeting with you herself.”

“I know,” Stiles replies, dragging his hand through his hair. “Maybe I'll hear from Derek first.”

Lydia’s doubtful look tells him everything he already knows; it’s a shot in the dark, but he can't help but hope.

-

Stiles gets four days of summer vacation with Callie, and he tries to make the most of it, even though his morning sickness is in full swing. He tries to hide it; he hasn't told her about the baby yet, wanting to wait until some decisions have been made. He takes her to the beach, and on the boardwalk he buys them matching star-shaped sunglasses with glittery golden frames. People smile at them as they walk down the street wearing their sunglasses, Callie licking at a pineapple snow cone. “See that?” Stiles asks her. “We’re making people’s day.”

He’s supposed to fly out to London with Laura, so the night before he takes Callie out for dinner to her favorite place which is, inexplicably, Hungarian (he’s not even sure how she found out about it, unless Malia took her there, which — well, knowing Malia’s impatience for dining out, she’d probably just chosen at random, so it actually makes plenty of sense). Callie’s quiet that night, prodding absently at her pecsenye.

“Want me to bring you back something from England?” he asks her. She doesn’t reply. “Callie?” he presses gently. “Anything wrong?”

Callie fiddles with her fork, not meeting his eyes. “Are you going to see Derek in London?”

Stiles stills. “He’s in Hong Kong,” he tells her carefully. “Why, Cal?”

“He hasn’t come over for a long time,” Callie says. “Are you mad at him?”

“No, no,” Stiles says hurriedly. He hesitates before adding, “Things are a little complicated right now, but we’ll see him soon.” _Hopefully,_ he thinks dismally.

“Okay,” Callie says, and he can see she’s not convinced, but he doesn’t know what else he can say without making promises he’s not sure he can keep. He’s worried about how Callie will take it if he and Derek split — he’d been _so_ careful about introducing them, waiting nearly a year after he and Derek started dating. Callie had liked Derek immediately — rare, for her — and Derek had been so good with her, like he was _made_ to be a dad. It was one of the reasons Stiles had been _excited_ about the baby. He’d thought — but it doesn’t matter now.

“What do you think about dessert, peanut?” he asks Callie. “I think we could both use a treat.”

-

Stiles drops Callie off at Malia’s early the next morning, carrying her bags up to the house while Callie trots ahead, lifting her up so she can enthusiastically ring the doorbell. While they wait for Malia to appear, Callie plaintively asks, “When am I going to be tall enough to reach it on my own?”

“I dunno, sweetpea,” Stiles says, ruffling her hair. “I didn’t get my growth spurt until eighth grade.”

“That’s so far away!” Callie says, looking horrified.

“Ask your mom,” Stiles tells her, as the front door swings open. He grins at Malia. “I think she was born full-grown, though.”

“Ha ha,” Malia says, narrowing her eyes at Stiles. “Watch yourself.”

“Mama, I finished school!” Callie says excitedly.

Malia smiles and crouches down to accept a hug. “I know,” she tells Callie. “I made pancakes to celebrate. You hungry?”

“Yes!” Callie crows, even more excited, and dashes inside. She dashes back outside as Malia straightens, throwing her arms around Stiles. “Bye Dad!”

“Bye Cal,” he says, giving her a hug. “Be good for your mom, all right?”

“We’ll get into plenty of trouble,” Malia says, so determinedly that Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled out an itinerary. As Callie disappears into the house, Malia looks at Stiles’ stomach, raising her eyebrows significantly. “Well? What’s the deal with that?”

“There is no deal,” Stiles says. He shoves his hands into his pockets, making sure Callie’s not lurking beyond the doorway before admitting, “Derek’s avoiding me.”

Malia rolls her eyes. “He’s such a baby.”

Stiles sighs. “I’m willing to give him time,” he says. “I know it’s a lot to think about. I’m just scared that...he’s not coming back.”

“He’d be an idiot not to,” Malia says impatiently. “Does he think we were ready for Callie?”

“Seems to be my M.O.,” Stiles says, sighing again. “Having children out of wedlock.”

“Callie turned out fine,” Malia says. “That was all you. This one will be fine too.”

“Come on, don’t sell yourself short,” Stiles replies, but Malia shakes her head.

“I mean it,” she says. “You know I love her, but I’m not a good parent. I don’t have the knack — you do.”

“I disagree,” Stiles says magnanimously. “Come on, what do you say — why don’t you move back in and we can co-parent?”

Malia snorts. “You know as well as I do that if there’s anything I’m worse at than being a parent, it’s being a roommate. I don’t know how I made it six years without killing you.”

“Pretty sure you tried a couple times,” Stiles says. “I seem to remember one time, I think you were about six months pregnant with Callie, and I came home with the wrong kind of cereal — ”

Malia smiles, a faroff, almost fond look on her face. “You got it right eventually. You’ll be fine. Any morning sickness?”

Stiles groans. “Too much.”

“I used to eat these ginger chew things Scott’s mom told me about. I'll find out what they were, let you know.”

“Thanks.” Stiles says gratefully. “I better get going. I still have to pick up Laura and get us over to the airport.”

“All right,” Malia says agreeably. She leans in, presses a kiss to his cheek. “Travel safe. We’ll hold down the fort.”

-

Of all the Hale family members, Laura’s probably the one who likes at him most — at the moment, anyway — which is a good thing, since he’s her assistant. He picks her up at her big fancy house (Derek’s got one in the same neighborhood, and he tries not to look at it as he drives by), and she gives him a smile as she swings herself into the passenger’s seat after chucking her luggage in the back.

“Good week off?” she asks.

“It was nice,” Stiles says. “First week of summer vacation for Callie.”

“Best time in any kid’s life,” Laura says. Stiles expects her to ask him about the baby, or if he’s heard from Derek, but she claps her hands together and says, “All right, where are the proposals?”

“In my bag,” Stiles says with half a laugh. “You know we’ve got an eleven hour flight ahead of us, right?”

“And you know how I feel about flying,” Laura retorts, reaching around so she can grab his messenger bag. “I need to stay busy until we’re off the ground, and then I need to get _drunk.”_

That’s exactly what she does, and Stiles can only think that it’s a good thing the Hales have their own selection of private jets after Laura curls herself into her seat and falls asleep with a half-finished glass of wine in her hand; Stiles gently takes it from her and does what little work there is to do, answering Laura’s phone when it goes off, taking messages, scheduling meetings. The only call he doesn't answer comes from Derek; Stiles watches the screen until it switches to voicemail. It hurts that Derek’s avoiding him; he feels like he did something wrong, but he knows he didn't — and he certainly didn't knock himself up.

“Whatever,” Stiles murmurs, and he takes a nap of his own.

When he awakes, the plane is beginning its descent over London, and he stares absently out the window at the early morning sky while Laura touches up her makeup. He gets their bags from the retrieval area and calls a car, and they’re mostly quiet on the drive to the hotel, except for a moment when they’re sitting in traffic and Laura says, “Lydia says you’re dodging my mother’s calls.”

“I'm not really interested in talking to her,” Stiles says, which isn't really something he should be saying, since she’s the owner of the company that pays his salary, but Laura just laughs; she knows her mother far better than Stiles, after all.

“I don't blame you,” she says. “But she wants to throw you a baby shower, believe it or not.”

Stiles shoots Laura an incredulous look. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Laura says, turning to look at him, her gaze steady. “Our family’s here to support you, Stiles.”

Stiles jerks his head away to glare out the window. “Tell that to your brother.”

“He’s being an idiot,” Laura says. “But he’ll come around.” They pull up in front of the hotel and she says, rather sternly, “We’ll talk about this later,” as a valet opens her door.

All the travel is Stiles’ least favorite part of his job, but the hotels they stay at make things _almost_ worth it. He’s got a suite all to himself, and he spares a moment to hang his suits in the closet, then peels off his clothes and crawls into the massive bed, sighing in happy relief — though he can't help but remember the last time they were in London, their trip had coincided with one of Derek’s and he and Stiles had spent every spare moment together in a massive bed not unlike this one.

Stiles rolls over with another sigh, less happy this time, and flaps his hand around inside his suitcase until he locates a zipped pocket. He pulls out the folded piece of paper and unfolds it, staring dolefully at the sonogram. He sighs a little when he looks at it; it’s hard to reconcile the fact that the little blur on the paper is inside him, growing every day. He wishes Derek was there to share it with him.

Stiles wasn’t exactly truthful when he told Lydia and Malia he hadn’t heard from Derek; they’ve texted on and off like they usually do when one of them is travelling, but Derek’s ignored any attempt on Stiles’ part to talk about the baby, and Stiles doesn’t know what to do. He’ll ask if Stiles is feeling all right, but that’s the most he’ll acknowledge that anything’s going on, and Stiles — he’s getting sick of it.

Stiles’ mouth sets mulishly and he pulls out his phone, swiftly snapping a photo of the sonogram and sending it off to Derek. Fucking ignore _that._ He tosses his phone down on the mattress, feeling viciously satisfied, and manages to get halfway to a comfortable doze before his phone begins buzzing. Some of the satisfaction he’d felt disappears when he sees it’s Derek calling; he hadn’t seriously expected a response. He draws in a deep breath and picks up his phone.

“Hi,” Stiles says quietly.

“Stop,” Derek says wearily. “Please.”

“Oh, am I bothering you?” Stiles shoots back, his temper rising quickly. “You’re not the one _growing a baby inside of you._ You’re not the one being ignored by your fucking boyfriend!”

Derek sighs softly. “I’m not — I’m sorry. I just need time to think about this, and I haven’t had a second to myself since — ”

“What is there to think about?” Stiles asks, stung. “You either want to be involved or you don’t. I’m — I’m not going to force you to stay.”

“It’s not that simple,” Derek says.

“Then _talk_ to me,” Stiles pleads. “I want to work this out, Der. Please.”

“I can't talk,” Derek says. “It’s complicated. Right now — I can't, Stiles.” He sounds almost panicked, and unease tightens Stiles’ stomach.

“Is everything okay?” he asks uncertainly. “I mean — besides us?” Derek’s quiet for so long that Stiles would think he’s hung up if not for the sound of his breathing, quick, unsteady. “You’re worrying me.”

“No,” Derek says. “It’s not okay.”

“Is that why you can't talk right now?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I'm sorry, Stiles. I know you're pissed,and you have every right to be. But I promise — when I get back in town — we’ll talk.”

Stiles is quiet for a long moment. “You bailed on me when I needed you,” he says.

“I know,” Derek says. “I know I fucked up, and I'm sorry. I know that's not enough.”

“It’s a start,” Stiles says, after another pause. “You better make it up to me when you get back.”

“I will,” Derek says. “I promise.”

Stiles looks down at his stomach, where he’s only just begun to show. “Callie misses you.”

“I miss her,” Derek replies. “And you.”

“I miss you too,” Stiles says softly.

They share another long moment of silence before Derek says, “I have to go. I’m in a lunch meeting and I told them I was going to the bathroom.” He hesitates, then adds, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Stiles says, relieved. “Talk to you later?”

“Talk to you later,” Derek confirms, and hangs up. Stiles flops back on his bed. It’s not exactly a resolution, but it’s a start.

-

Laura and Stiles do a whirlwind tour of London; Laura is a master of negotiation, and she hammers out deal after deal. There are meetings and dinners and parties, and they don't actually revisit the topic of Derek until the return flight to the states. Laura nurses her fifth glass of celebratory champagne and determinedly avoids looking out the plane’s windows while Stiles reviews some paperwork.

“You know,” Laura says abruptly, “I’m pretty sure that out of all the people Derek’s ever dated, you’re the only one he’s really loved.”

Stiles purses his lips, not looking up from his papers. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’m just saying,” Laura says. “He’s not going to bail on you.”

Stiles is quiet for a long moment and then he looks at Laura. “Do you know what’s going on with him? I talked to him earlier in the week and...he sounded super stressed.”

Laura hesitates. “I’m not supposed to say anything,” she says, “but — Mom asked him to take over east coast operations.”

Stiles stares at her, his heart sinking. He’s always known Talia doesn’t like him, but for her to ask Derek to move to the east coast means she’s deliberately — or at least knowingly — trying to break them up. “When did she ask?” he asks shakily. “After I told Derek about — ?”

Laura shakes her head. “I’m not sure. The night before he left for Hong Kong, I think.”

Stiles looks down at his hands, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He can’t think — can barely _breathe._ He’d told Derek about the baby the night before he left. He’d made a nice dinner and Derek had come over, and he’d looked so drawn, but Stiles had thought he’d just been tired, but now he realizes that it’d been because of what Talia had asked, and then Stiles had dumped the baby on him, and it isn’t like it makes it right, but no fucking wonder he’d bailed.

Stiles’ heart hurts. He wants to see Derek, wants to spend a day in bed with him, just being _near_ him. Some of that is the pregnant omega in him that wants his mate, but mostly it’s just because he loves Derek, and he hasn’t seen him in almost a month, and he fucking misses him. He’s not coming back for another two weeks, though, and Stiles doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do — he might go crazy first.

“I’m sorry,” Laura says quietly. “I know it’s not exactly good news.”

“I guess I know for sure now that your mom hates me,” he says dismally.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Laura says. “I mean — I think she likes you, as a person. It’s just…”

“I’m not good enough for her son,” Stiles sighs.

“She wants what’s best for him,” Laura says. “And to her, that means marrying some other CEO or executive. She doesn’t understand that for Derek, what’s best for him is someone who makes him happy, and that’s you, Stiles.”

Stiles turns his head to look out the window, quiet. His heart hurts more than ever. He knows how important Derek’s career is to him; he’s not sure Laura’s right about being what Derek needs. Maybe it’s a good thing he won’t see Derek for another two weeks. Maybe, by then, he’ll have figured out what to say.

-

It’s early in the evening when they get back to the states, and Stiles drops Laura off at her house, then heads home and crawls into bed. Laura’s given him the next day off so he can get to his doctor’s appointment, and Malia’s keeping Callie for the day, so he has the house to himself. He’s exhausted but sleeps like shit — to the point where he almost oversleeps, and has to scramble out of the house. He’s completely flustered by the time he gets to the doctor’s office, despite the receptionist kindly telling him he’s right on time, so when he turns around and sees Derek sitting in one of the waiting room chairs, it takes him a long moment to realize what he’s seeing.

“Derek?” he says dumbly. “What are you doing here?”

Derek gets to his feet. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. “You said you wanted me here,” he says. “So I came.”

“Oh,” Stiles says blankly. _“Oh,”_ he says again, when his brain catches up, and propels himself into motion, striding over to Derek and throwing his arms around him. Derek exhales softly and returns the embrace, pressing his cheek to Stiles’ hair. Stiles turns his face to Derek’s shoulder, breathing in deeply, Derek’s alpha scent easy and familiar.  “Thanks for coming,” he murmurs.

Derek presses a kiss to Stiles’ temple. “Missed you,” he says quietly.

Stiles pulls back so he can see Derek’s face, his brow furrowing. “Are you — ” he begins, but a nurse calls his name and they have to pull apart in order to follow her into an examination room.

Derek’s very quiet as they get situated in the room, watching the technician getting the ultrasound set up with his eyes narrowed. Stiles has never seen him look so uneasy before; he wonders if Derek’s nervous about the baby, or their argument, or something else entirely. He nudges Derek’s arm as his doctor comes into the room and offers Derek his hand when Derek turns to look at him, and to his relief Derek takes it, his grasp strong. When the doctor begins moving the wand over his stomach and finds the baby, Derek’s grip on his hand tightens, his jaw clenching.

“Still looking nice and healthy,” Stiles’ doctor says, looking pleased. “You want to hear the heartbeat?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. Derek looks like he’s going to pass out; when the doctor turns up the volume so they can all hear the muffled sound of the baby’s heartbeat, he closes his eyes, his brow furrowing. It worries Stiles; they just jumped into this — maybe Derek wasn't ready. Maybe he still hasn't decided what he’s going to do. But it means something — it means a _lot_ to Stiles — that Derek flew all the way from freaking _Hong Kong_ to come to Stiles’ twenty-minute appointment.

Stiles loves Derek. He’d thought he loved Malia - and he does, as a friend and family - but it took them six years of living together to figure out  that they weren't meant for each other, and when Stiles met Derek he _knew_ that Derek was the one he was meant for. He’s never felt the way he feels for Derek for _anyone_ \- he can't even put it into words; it just consumes him, so deep it’s almost frightening. He’s terrified Derek’s figured out he doesn't feel the same.

After his appointment, they walk outside together. Stiles sneaks his hand into Derek’s and he doesn’t pull away, but he’s still quiet, his gaze far away, so it’s Stiles who draws in a deep breath and says, “I meant what I said before. I’m not going to make you be involved if you don’t want to be.” It’s the last thing he wants, of course, but he wouldn't be doing any of them any favors by forcing Derek to stick around against his will.

Derek looks at him, his eyebrows drawing together. “Is that what you think I want?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “You’re not talking to me; I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

Derek exhales slowly. “Can we sit?” he asks, and Stiles nods. There’s a park across the road, so they cross the street and find a bench.

“Look,” Stiles says, after they’ve sat there for a long, somewhat awkward moment of silence. “I know what your mom asked you.” Derek looks at him sharply and Stiles swallows hard and continues, “If this is about that — I’m not going to ask you to give that up for me.”

“I want to,” Derek says simply. Stiles’ mouth snaps shut in surprise. Derek breathes in deep and says, “I was going to say yes. When I came over that night, I was going to ask you if you’d move with me — but then you told me about the baby, and I realized how selfish it’d be to ask that of you, with Callie and the rest of your family here. You looked so happy — I ruined that moment for you, and I’m so sorry.”

He looks so miserable that Stiles reaches over and takes his hand without even thinking. “Why didn’t you just _talk_ to me?”

“I panicked,” Derek sighs. “I’m sorry. I know that was the worst way I could have responded.”

Stiles is quiet for a while, watching an older man walk past with his dog. “So what are you thinking now?” he asks eventually.

“I spent a long time trying to figure out how to make it work,” Derek says slowly, “and I realized I can’t. But — the more I thought about, the more I realized...I don’t care about work. I don’t care about having a career. We’ve been together two years and I’m always happiest when I’m around you.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, a faint smile fighting its way onto his face.

“Yeah,” Derek says softly, squeezing his hand.

Stiles hesitates before asking, “And what about the baby?”

Derek gaze slides down to Stiles’ stomach. “This isn’t something I expected,” he says. “Not so soon, anyway. But - ” He meets Stiles’ eyes firmly. “ - there’s no way in hell I’m letting you do this alone.”

“Are you serious?” Stiles asks.

“Yes,” Derek says, and his face breaks into that warm smile Stiles has missed so much and that - that’s when Stiles knows he’s all in, because Derek doesn’t smile unless he means it. An echoing smile lights Stiles’ face, even though his eyes burn a little in relief.

“Thank fuck,” he breathes, and leans over to kiss Derek, who curls a hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and keeps it there, heavy and warm. They pull apart for air, and Stiles asks, “You think you’re ready to be a dad?”

“Not in the slightest,” Derek admits. “But at least I have you to lead by example.”

“That’s what my dad always says,” Stiles says. He hesitates and then adds, “But I haven't carried a kid before. That’s new territory for me.”

“We’ll get through it together,” Derek says. He tentatively puts his hand on Stiles’ stomach. “How do you think it happened?”

“Condom must have failed during your last heat,” Stiles says, putting his hand over Derek’s. “The timeline’s about right.” He watches Derek look at their hands, drinking in his long eyelashes and the way the morning light softens all the hard lines of his face. The deep circles are still under his eyes, but Stiles can't see any sign of the stress he was wearing earlier. He touches Derek’s cheek, enjoying the way Derek turns his face into Stiles’ touch. “So what’s next?”

“I tell my mom to go fuck herself,” Derek says, and Stiles lets out a guilty laugh. Derek smiles faintly. “I'll ask her to find me a new place in the company where I don't have to travel - and if she won’t do it, I'll quit and find something else.”

“I'd like that,” Stiles says. “It sucks when you’re gone half the month. Me too, I guess,” he adds thoughtfully. “Should I quit?”

“Laura will find you something in the office, if you want it,” Derek says. “Or if you don’t want to work at all, I can support us.”

Stiles smiles. “Well, we’ve got some time to figure that out. What about today? Are you back for good or did you just fly in for this?”

Derek sighs. “I have a flight back tonight.”

“You look exhausted,” Stiles says. “Want to come over and take a nap with me?”

“I’d like that,” Derek says, his expression soft.  “I miss sleeping next to you.”

“God, me too,” Stiles sighs, linking their fingers together. “And this baby is making me horny as fuck, so if we can get a little frisky later, that’d be great.”

“You’re always horny,” Derek says, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Give me a ride? I took a taxi here.”

“I’ll give you a ride,” Stiles says as dirty as he can manage, getting to his feet. Derek rolls his eyes, but the moment they’re headed for the parking lot and Stiles’ guard is down, Derek catches him around the waist, hauling him back against his chest. A woman on a nearby bench turns at the startled noise Stiles makes, then smiles when he laughs.

Derek presses his lips to Stiles’ shoulder. “I love you,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” Stiles says, leaning back against him. “And this afternoon you’re going to fuck me stupid and then when you get home from this trip, you’re going to take me out for a fancy dinner to make up for it, and then - ” He twists around, curling his arms around Derek’s neck. “We’ll be okay, because I love you too. Neither of us is perfect - we’ll make mistakes, but we’ll get through it, okay? Because we’re partners.”

“Okay,” Derek says softly, and Stiles leans in and kisses him deeply.

As they finally, _finally_ make their way over to the car, Derek says, “Speaking of partners - maybe during this fancy dinner I’m taking you to, we can talk about moving in together.”

“Yeah?” Stiles says, grinning broadly. “I’d like that - I’d like that a lot.”


	96. Chapter 96

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **"future fic, canon, stiles sees Derek for the first time in over ten years."**  
> 
>  **Pairing:** None (sterek preslash, maybe)
> 
>  **Rating:** General
> 
>  **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, future fic, canon compliant, dark au

****Derek had just put a chicken in the oven to roast when he heard a car pull into the driveway. He frowned to himself, absently wiping his hands on his pants as he turned to look out the kitchen window, not expecting any guests - not that he _ever_ expected guests. His frown deepened at the sight of a young man getting out a sedan - one he didn’t recognize, with California plates. Derek didn’t recognize the man, but even as he thought that, something told him that wasn’t true; there was something familiar about the set of his mouth, and the moles freckling his skin - Derek’s lips parted in surprise.

Derek reached his front door at almost the same moment his visitor did, swinging it open before he could knock. _“Stiles?”_ he said. “What are you - ”

“Fuck you!” Stiles spat, and swung his fist right at Derek’s face.

Derek, who hadn’t expected to be assaulted, caught Stiles’ punch right in the mouth and took a reeling step backward. “Stiles, what the hell?” he growled. He licked at his lip, tasting blood there, though the split in his lip was already healing.

Stiles was shaking his hand out with a grimace. “You’re still shitty at fighting,” he said angrily. “Good to see some things don’t change.”

“I’m not fighting you,” Derek retorted. “Why’d you punch me? Why the hell are you here?”

“Long story,” Stiles said, and just like that, all the anger seemed to drain out of him. Derek, now that the pain in his mouth was fading and they were both standing still, had a chance to really look at Stiles, and he didn’t like what he saw.

Derek left Beacon Hills without a backward glance nearly ten years ago, eventually settling where he lived now, in rural coastal Washington. He hadn’t spoken to Stiles - or any of the pack, for that matter - in probably seven years. Stiles looked… _worn_ was probably the best word. He’d only grown leaner and taller in the decade since Derek had last seen him, no baby fat softening his face. There was a bitter twist to his mouth, dark circles under his eyes, and a pale scar running along his right cheekbone, splitting his hairline just above his ear. He looked like he’d been fighting life and life had been winning every round.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked carefully.

“No,” Stiles said simply. “Can I come in?”

“Are you going to punch me again?”

“No,” Stiles replied, his mouth twisting wryly. “Sorry.”

Derek considered this, then stepped back so Stiles could come inside. He felt weirdly anxious - not because he hadn’t seen Stiles in a long time, or because Stiles had just punched him in the face, but because he could count on one hand the number of guests he’d ever had over, and for some reason it felt like he needed to make a good impression. Stiles, for his part, looked around impassively and said, “Nice place,” but he didn’t mean it; his voice was bitter, full of resentment.

Derek narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “You want to talk to me about what’s bothering you?”

Stiles met his gaze and then looked away, scratching distractedly at the scar on his cheek. “No,” he said. He crossed his own arms over his chest, looking uncomfortable. “I’m - I’m tired. Can I take a nap?”

“Are you serious?” Derek asked flatly, annoyed he was annoyed; he hadn’t felt this level of irritation since living in Beacon Hills. He thought he’d gotten _away_ from all of this, and yet five minutes with Stiles Stilinski and it all came back. “You show up unannounced, punch me in the face, and then ask if you can _sleep_ here? What the hell is your problem?”

Stiles stared at the floor, his shoulders tense. “I can’t breathe there,” he said abruptly. “I - can’t do it anymore.” Stiles’ hands shook; he shoved them into his armpits, his mouth thin.

Derek knew he was talking about Beacon Hills - God knew he’d felt the same, living there. It sucked the life from you, and if Stiles had been seventeen then, and twenty-seven now, he’d made it there longer than Derek had, and Derek wasn’t sure that was anything to be proud of. He looked at the scar on Stiles’ cheek, and then he looked at the exhaustion on Stiles’ face, and he made a decision.

“Follow me,” he said, and led Stiles down the hall to the guest bedroom. It was hardly ever used - Cora stayed there during her twice yearly visits - but it was clean, and the sheets were unused, even if they’d been on the bed for three months. “You can stay.”

“Thank you, fuck,” Stiles breathed, slipping past Derek into the room, stripping off his sweatshirt as he went. Derek watched Stiles peel back the covers and kick off his shoes, and then he got in bed and Derek was pretty sure Stiles was asleep before his head even touched the pillow, his body collapsing like a Jenga tower. Derek watched him a long moment, and then he shook his head and went to get the rest of dinner started.

-

Derek spent the time in between Stiles’ appearance and the chicken being done wondering if there was someone he should call - Scott, or Stiles’ father, maybe, because it seemed like Stiles wasn’t _right_ somehow, but he decided to wait and see if he could get Stiles to talk to him first.

He put a tray of potatoes and parsnips into the oven and then went outside to look at Stiles’ car. It was a long drive from California, Derek knew, though he’d never done it all in one shot. At least ten hours, he was pretty sure, and he remembered how it’d felt leaving Beacon Hills, every mile between him and that cesspit of a town taking a hundred pounds of stress of his shoulders.

When the food came out of the oven, Derek ate his fill and then took a plate down the hall. Rousing Stiles was a difficult task, but Derek eventually got him upright and eating. Stiles ate like a starving man, almost inhaling the food, and Derek eyed him critically, wondering how much of his diet was devoted to empty calories.

“What happened to the jeep?” he asked, as Stiles shoveled the last forkful of roasted vegetables into his mouth.

“Wrecked it,” Stiles said, pushing the empty plate back into Derek’s hands. “Hit a unicorn like eight years ago. Thanks,” he added, and collapsed back against the pillows, falling seamlessly back to sleep.

He slept the whole evening; when Derek went to bed, Stiles was still asleep. Stiles rose once in the night to use the bathroom and Derek woke at the noise, tensing at the suspicion of an intruder before he realized it was Stiles. Stiles was still asleep when Derek rose the next morning, and Derek decided not to wake him - if he’d been asleep that long, he probably needed it - so he went about his usual morning routine, working out and eating breakfast. He would have liked to work in his garden, but it was pouring outside, the rain hammering against the roof, so he read instead, stretched out on the couch.

Stiles didn’t get up until around noon; he appeared suddenly in the doorway to the hall, looking a little disheveled and lost. “What time is it?” he asked, sounding bewildered.

Derek glanced at his phone. “Twelve thirteen.”

“Shit,” Stiles groaned, dragging his hands over his face. “God - I’m sorry for just barging in here yesterday - and for punching you. I’m a fucking mess.”

Derek looked at him thoughtfully. Stiles certainly looked a bit better than he had the day before, the dark circles under his eyes a little lighter, but there was still tension wound up inside him, a nervous energy vibrating through him. “If you go out through the trees behind the house, you can see the water. Hood Canal. Get some fresh air.”

Stiles turned his head like he could see it already. “I get enough fresh air,” he said, but Derek could tell he liked the idea.

“There’s nothing up here,” Derek told him. “No packs, nothing supernatural. I made sure of that.”

Stiles gave him a weary look. “It’s pouring.”

“I’ve got an umbrella,” Derek said.

Stiles rubbed his hands over his face again. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m doing here?”

“Later,” Derek said. “Get outside.”

“If you don’t want me here, I can go,” Stiles said, but he wasn’t really arguing; he accepted the umbrella Derek dug out of a closet for him, and then Derek watched him cross the backyard and disappear into the trees.

It was a quiet afternoon. Stiles stayed outside; Derek glanced out the window occasionally, and he could just make out a splash of red where Stiles had settled himself down at the edge of the water beyond the trees. Derek cleaned the house, and by the time dinner had rolled around, the rain had stopped. When Stiles finally reappeared, he looked much better, his cheeks flushed.

“I’m starving,” he announced and then, seeing Derek pulling food from the fridge, he asked, “Can I help?”

Derek put him to work chopping vegetables for a salad, and he could feel Stiles sneaking glances at him as he shaped hamburger patties. “What?” he asked eventually.

Stiles shrugged. “It’s just - weird, I guess. Seeing you act like a person.”

Derek raised his eyebrows, vaguely insulted. “Like a person?”

“I mean - seeing you cook. Seeing you live in an - ” Stiles waved his knife around “ - actual house. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you _eat_ before.”

Derek snorted, pointedly reaching over and popping a cherry tomato into his mouth. Stiles grinned. “Fine. But seriously - I never thought about it in high school, but when you first came back to town, you were living in the old house. Where’d you shower? Where’d you wash your clothes?”

“In the reservoir,” Derek deadpanned.

“Seriously?” Stiles asked.

Derek rolled his eyes. “No. I showered at the gym and used a laundromat. Like a _person.”_

“Throwing my words back at me, huh?” Stiles said, turning back to the cutting board. “Clever, clever.”

They had a nice dinner, but Stiles was beginning to grow antsy, shaking his leg nonstop under the table, hands restless. He helped Derek clear the table and then disappeared down the back hallway to make a phone call; Derek tried not to listen in, but it wasn’t a big house, and his senses were sharp. He focused on doing the dishes, but still managed to hear snatches of conversation - Stiles sounded frustrated, and so did the male voice Derek could hear on the other end. Maybe Beacon Hills wasn’t his only problem, Derek thought, rinsing out a glass.

As he let the sink drain, Stiles came back into the kitchen, looking irritated, and Derek asked - before he could stop himself - “Boyfriend?”

“My dad,” Stiles said, narrowing his eyes at Derek.

“He all right?”

Stiles hesitated, his voice a little unsteady when he said, “Not really.” His long fingers tapped against the countertop. Derek didn’t press it. “Are you - ” Stiles began, and then stopped, looking embarrassed.

Derek raised his eyebrows. “Am I what?”

“Seeing anyone?” Stiles asked, looking annoyed.

“No,” Derek said, a little surprised. “Are you?”

“No,” Stiles said flatly, looking even more annoyed, like he was regretting asking. Derek felt like he was missing something, but it felt like they were heading for dangerous territory, so he didn’t press that, either.

Instead, he gave a thoughtful glance to the kitchen window and said, “It cleared up out there. It’d be a good night for a bonfire.”

He looked at Stiles, who sighed, looking defeated, and said, “Fine.”

“Beer?” Derek offered.  
  
Stiles nodded, looking more agitated than ever; he drank half of the beer Derek handed him in two long pulls, not even asking if it contained wolfsbane - it didn’t; Derek didn’t actually like being drunk, but he liked the taste of some of the local microbrews - and followed Derek outside. He thunked himself down into one of Derek’s two deck chairs, pulling his long legs toward his chest so none of him touched the ground, nursing his beer.  
  
Derek ignored him for the moment, focusing on getting the fire started. The wood had been sheltered under the deck, and though it was a little damp, he didn’t have much trouble getting the kindling aflame. It _was_ a nice night, he thought, tilting his head up to look at the clearing sky, stars twinkling in the purple patches of space between the dark gray clouds. The air smelled like dirt and wet greenery; he breathed in deeply, reveling in it. There was nothing wrong with the land up here, no decay, no dark magic poisoning everything.  
  
Derek looked at Stiles. Whatever good being outside all day had done him, it was wearing away under a dense cloud of anxiety; he was staring into the fire grimly, his mouth thin, long fingers tapping at his beer bottle.  
  
“Stiles,” Derek began, but Stiles got there first, blurting out, “I hated you.”  
  
Derek paused. “Oh,” he said, after a moment.  
  
Stiles glanced at him and then away, chewing at his bottom lip. “For a long time. I just - it wasn’t fair. You got out of there,” he said, and Derek knew he was talking about Beacon Hills. “You got out, and I hated you for that.”  
  
Derek put another log in the fire, watching the flames curl around it. “What happened?” he asked quietly.  
  
Stiles laughed bitterly. “I gave up my whole fucking life because of fucking Beacon Hills. I can’t leave it - I’ll have to go back tomorrow because if I don’t, I’ll start getting a headache, and then my nose will start bleeding, and then it starts feeling like every nerve in my body is on fire - “ He made a furious noise, shaking his head. “I had to go to the community college because I couldn’t leave. I gave up every single fucking dream I ever had - my career, having a family, _making something of myself_.”  
  
Stiles scoffed, tilting his head back to drain the last of his beer. “And then I’d think of you - “ He spread his arms wide, tone going mocking. “ - sitting up here in your manor, living a perfect fucking life while the rest of us suffered because of the stupid shit _your_ family dragged us into!”  
  
Derek was quiet. A decade ago, he might have been in Stiles’ face, snarling with anger, but most of that had faded after a few years out of town. And he couldn’t deny that his family had played a huge part in the town’s chaos - Peter’s schemes and Derek’s own stupid ideas were part of it, of course, but the problems went back decades. Beacon Hills had never been a stable area, and they hadn’t helped.  
  
“What happened to the rest of the pack?” he asked.  
  
“They all got out,” Stiles said, slumping back against the chair, looking weary. “Lydia’s working on her doctorate. Kira’s in New York. Liam and Mason are in Sacramento.”  
  
“Malia?” Derek prompted, when Stiles fell silent.  
  
Stiles’ lips thinned. “She figured out the full shift,” he said. “I haven’t seen her in years.”  
  
No wonder she’d stopped calling, Derek thought, feeding another log into the fire. He watched the flames spit over the damp bark, sparks spiraling into the air. “Scott?”  
  
“Lives with me and Dad,” Stiles said. “I told Dad he needed to get out, but he said he wasn’t leaving the house he and Mom built.” Stiles’ voice staggered over these words, dipping with emotion. Derek didn’t look at him - gave him the space. Whatever _this_ wound was, it was fresh.  
  
Stiles was quiet for a while. He pulled another beer from the six pack, and then he said, “The town’s dead. They condemned the high school the year after we graduated. Asbestos, they said, but - you know Beacon Hills.” He shrugged. “Could have been anything. Hospital closed. Water supply got contaminated. People started to leave and - the bad shit just kept coming. The supernatural, I mean. We used to try to fight it, but with just me and Scott - we can’t keep up. We just try to keep our house safe.”  
  
Stiles looked down at his knees, his breath coming in shaky spurts. “I know it’s not fair to be mad at you. The fire - you paid your price to leave,” he said unsteadily. “I guess this is mine. We just - thought we were doing the right thing.”  
  
“You saved your parents,” Derek said.  
  
“And killed an entire town,” Stiles shot back. “And now - “ He exhaled unevenly, steeling himself to say, “And now Dad’s sick, and I think that’s my fault too. _Fuck!”_ He dropped his beer bottle, letting it fall to the stone with a sharp clink, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, breathing in sharply.  
  
“Stiles,” Derek said, concerned. He got to his feet, moving around the fire to crouch down in front of Stiles, hesitating before reaching out to touch his knee. He could feel Stiles’ skin burning through his jeans, too hot even with allowing for the warmth of the fire. “That’s not your fault.”  
  
“It is,” Stiles said. “I know it is. What am I going to do if he dies? It’s just going to be me and Scott stuck there forever.”  
  
“There has to be a solution,” Derek said. “Have you asked Deaton?”  
  
“He was working on it,” Stiles said, his mouth twisting. “Something killed him four years ago. We never figured out what it was.”  
  
“Oh.” Derek closed his mouth, thinking. There had to be _something_. “I’ll come back with you,” he said, and just the thought turned his stomach, but - he felt responsible. Peter had been the one to bite Scott, sure, but Derek was the one who’d tried to lead them - poorly, with usually disastrous results. And Stiles was right; he’d spent the last decade enjoying himself while the rest of them suffered. He eyed the scar on Stiles’ cheek. That wasn’t fair.  
  
“No,” Stiles said immediately. “That’s not - I didn’t come here for that.”  
  
“What _did_ you come here for, then?” Derek asked.  
  
“I - “ Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked embarrassed. “I got angry yesterday, after I found out about Dad. I decided to go for a drive, and then I thought of you, and…I got carried away.”  
  
“You needed to get away,” Derek said.  
  
Stiles hesitated, then nodded. “I needed to get away.”  
  
Derek was quiet for a long moment, thoughtful. He realized he still had his hand on Stiles’ knee and pulled it away, then reached for the six pack and handed Stiles a new bottle. Stiles took it without a word. He twisted the cap off another for himself and took a long swig. He looked up at the sky, now deep navy and dusted with faint pinpricks of stars. He said, “I’m coming back with you. You deserve to be able to live your life.”  
  
Stiles fiddled with the label on his beer bottle. “Even if it’s just buying a somewhat shitty house on a river?”  
  
“My house is not even somewhat shitty,” Derek retorted, “and it’s a channel, not a river.” He watched Stiles grin halfheartedly. “You haven’t been honest with the rest of the pack, have you? They wouldn’t want you living like this.”  
  
“No,” Stiles admitted, his smile fading. “I don’t want them to worry. Neither does Scott.”  
  
“I think it’s time they start worrying,” Derek told him. “They’re smart. If we put our heads together, we can break through this.”  
  
“You really think so,” Stiles said, sounding awed. “What happened to you, Derek Hale?”  
  
Derek rolled his eyes as he got to his feet. “I grew up,” he said. “Now it’s your turn. Besides - I’ll do anything if it means you won’t show up on my doorstep and punch me again.”  
  
Stiles grinned ruefully. “Yeah, okay, but you have to admit - I’ve learned how to throw a good punch, right?”  
  
“Sure you did,” Derek said indulgently, turning to put another log on the fire.  
  
Stiles watched him move, his eyes glittering in the firelight, and then he abruptly said, “Can I come back here?” Derek gave him a startled look and Stiles said, “I promise I’ll be a better guest next time. It’s just - peaceful up here.” He tilted his head back, looking up at the stars.  
  
Derek followed his gaze, looking up just in time to see a meteor flash across the sky. “Shooting star,” he said. “Make a wish.”  
  
Stiles snorted softly. “Didn’t I just?”  
  
Derek looked at him again, eyes following the way the flickering light from the flames cast him in sharp light and shadow, his honey-colored eyes set on fire. A strange warmth stirred in Derek’s chest, a nervous, anticipating flutter he hadn’t felt in a long time. “Wish granted,” he said, feeling weirdly vulnerable.  
  
Stiles smiled slowly, finishing off his beer. “Thanks,” he said, rolling the bottle loosely between his fingers. “I’m not going to forget it.”

“You wouldn’t be the Stiles I know if you did,” Derek told him. Stiles looked at him, his eyes bright and clear, and Derek saw, for the first time, a new expression on his face: hope.


	97. Chapter 97

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **The last couple of times I’ve opened prompts, I’ve had multiple requests for various royalty AUs, so here’s another ABO one that’s kind of a mishmash of all the different requests I received. (It was supposed to be longer, tbh, but it’s been sitting in my draft folder for several months now so I think this is as far as it’s going. It’s also the second version; the first one I wrote was way too dark and painful.)**  
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, arranged marriage, royalty au, ABO, omega!Derek, alpha!Stiles

“Try to be polite,” Laura whispered, reaching over to straighten the collar of Derek’s robes.

Derek nodded stiffly, his jaw clenched tight with nerves. The terms of the marriage agreement were already laid out and agreed to between Laura and Derek’s future husband; this meeting was merely a formality, a chance for them to meet before the ceremony, but there was still time for things to go wrong. Derek wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the union - their kingdom _needed_ the aid his marriage would bring, their people starving after two years of failed harvests - but his mind whirled with the myriad ways things could go wrong.

He and Laura both stood when the doors opened and two men entered the room. One man was older, his face worn but friendly - this was the king father, John; it was his son the king, Stiles, that Derek was to marry. The last time Derek saw Stiles was at Stiles’ coronation after the death of his mother; Stiles had been ten, Derek fourteen. Stiles was no longer the scrawny child whose head was barely large enough for his crown - now he was lean and broad-shouldered, and he held himself in an easy, confident way that Derek found himself envying. As he drew near, Derek could smell his alpha scent, rich and strong, and his breath came out of him in a quiet exhale that made Laura frown at him.

Derek felt his face warm as the king looked at him, his expression calculating, and not entirely friendly - but then he gave Derek a faint smile, one side of his mouth quirking up, and Derek’s face grew even warmer.

Laura and the king father did most of the talking; Laura was fluent in the language of Stiles’ kingdom, but Derek only knew a few words of it. Stiles didn’t seem to know any of theirs, but he paid intense attention to his father and Laura as they spoke. Laura paused every so often to tell Derek what they spoke of, but he wasn’t unduly concerned; having grown up second in line to the throne, he’d long known that unless something terrible happened to Laura, it was likely that he’d be married off to another kingdom in order to benefit their own. He was nothing more than a good being traded in this deal, his title and status in trade for a place at Stiles’ side and all the benefits to their kingdom that marrying him would bring. Laura had told him that he had a choice in it, that he could say no, but it had been Derek’s suggestion in the first place; food in their people’s stomachs was more important than his like or dislike of his future spouse. At least Stiles was handsome, and he didn’t look _un_ kind.

“Well?” Laura asked urgently, after the king and his father had left. They would return to their own kingdom, and Derek was to follow in a couple weeks’ time for the wedding. “What did you think of him?”

Derek smiled faintly. He knew Laura wanted only the best for him, but he also knew she believed in fanciful things like true love, and he knew better than to expect anything from his marriage. “I think he’ll make a good husband.”

Laura seemed crestfallen. “But did you like him?”

“We barely spoke to each other,” Derek reminded her.

“It doesn’t have to be him,” Laura said, looking worried. “We can find someone else - ”

“It must be him,” Derek told her, a chiding note to his voice, “or our people will starve.”

“I want you to be happy,” Laura said softly.

“I will be,” Derek replied, more confident than he felt, “if our people are.”

-

When he arrived in his new capital city a few weeks later, the place was ablaze with activity and excitement over the preparations for the upcoming ceremony, and Derek was swept into it almost immediately. It was overwhelming; there were faces and names to learn, new customs just enough different from his own that it seemed as though he was always doing something wrong. Few people seemed to speak his own language, and though he’d spent the past weeks trying to learn this new kingdom’s tongue, he was far from fluent; luckily, the woman who seemed to be in charge of organizing the entire event, a noblewoman named Lydia, spoke his own language and took him willingly under her wing - Derek doubted that he would have gotten through that first chaotic week without her.

He rarely saw Stiles; when he did, it was always from a distance, and Stiles always had a harried sort of grimace on his face. Lydia assured Derek that it had nothing to do with the wedding; there was, she said distastefully, trouble on the kingdom’s eastern border. But, she hurried to say, seeing Derek’s brow crease, it was nothing he needed to worry about; it’d be cleared up in a matter of days.

The wedding day itself was a blur. The ceremony was long and full of complicated rituals; Derek’s feet hurt from standing so long by the end of it, tense all over from nerves. Stiles stood silently next to him, his expression solemn, and Derek longed to make some kind of connection with him, to find _something_ in this foreign land that would ground him. Stiles’ alpha scent helped a little, and the few times they had to touch - to clasp hands, or anoint each other with oils - his skin buzzed at Stiles’ touch. And yet, Stiles’ face remained unreadable; Derek couldn’t tell if Stiles was just as nervous as he was, or if he saw this as an annoyance - perhaps he hadn’t even wanted to be married.

Derek’s anxiety only grew as the ceremony ended and the banquet at the palace began; he knew what came after the banquet, when he would go with the king to his - _their -_ chambers and consummate their marriage. The banquet ran long into the night, leaving Derek’s nerves plenty of time to grow and grow, so by the time Stiles took his hand and gently led him off down the long, cool hallways to their rooms, he was a nervous wreck and trying to keep Stiles from noticing. Communication was difficult; Stiles tried to talk to him, but Derek could only understand one word in five, and the little he did understand he could hardly force himself to answer. Stiles didn’t seem to be bothered, but Derek was afraid he was coming off as distant and unfriendly.

But the worst of it all was that when they finally got into bed together, Derek couldn’t stay hard. He tried, he _tried_ to be a good omega for his new husband, and Stiles didn’t say a word about it, but Derek could see the disappointment on his face. It hurt to disappoint him; Derek wanted to tell him that it was nerves, that he’d get better - but he didn’t know the words. He felt like a failure; his main purpose here was for marriage; what use was he if he couldn’t even satisfy his husband?

Derek didn’t have a chance to disappoint him again; within days of their marriage, the trouble on the kingdom’s eastern border grew into conflict, and Stiles left the palace with a battalion of soldiers to sort it out. Derek was left behind to flounder his way into his new role as king consort; it was his responsibility to run the kingdom while Stiles was gone - a difficult task when he’d lived there less than a month and barely knew the language. Luckily, Stiles’ father was there to help guide him, and there was a bevy of advisors and nobles eager to help him learn.

Still, Derek went to bed every night exhausted, overwhelmed by this new world. It was nothing like the kingdom he’d grown up in, where the summers were cool and the winters long and cold - this place was subtropical and the days were hot and bright year round, the air touched with dampness. The food, the customs, the language, the people - everything was different here. He made friends of the nobles, and things grew easier as he grew more fluent in the language, but he felt lonely. He wished he had someone he could confide in, someone like...a husband.

But Stiles remained a stranger to him - in the weeks that followed their marriage, he made it back to the palace a couple times. He seemed pleased with the way Derek was handling things, but though they slept in the same bed, he seemed utterly uninterested in Derek - Derek tried one night, tentatively touched Stiles’ hip in the darkness of their room, and Stiles quietly said, “No,” then twisted onto his side, away from Derek. His rejection stung more than Derek had expected it to; he lay awake for a long time after that, staring blankly up at the ceiling. He didn’t try again.

Things grew worse on the border and Stiles returned to what was becoming a battlefield. Derek was fine; he was finally starting to feel like he had a handle on things - and then he went into heat. It wasn’t a big deal - it certainly wasn’t his first heat, and he knew how to handle himself, but he’d thought - hoped - that now that he was married, he wouldn’t be spending heats alone any more. He made sure that the affairs of the palace were in order and then holed up alone for the couple of days, riding the heat out. The palace doctor checked on him once or twice, and halfway through, he confessed to Derek, “I sent his majesty word of your condition.”

Derek couldn't stop the hopeful noise he made, weak in his heat. “Is he coming?”

“Unfortunately not, your highness,” the doctor told him regretfully. “He couldn’t leave the battlefront.”

Derek couldn’t fault him that, but when his next heat came and went and Stiles didn't come for him, he began to grow resentful. The heat after that was worse than either of the previous, and when Stiles still didn’t come for him, it wasn't just Derek angry at him; people were beginning to talk. Derek heard whispered rumors of infidelity, that he was barren, that there would be no heir. Derek bore these rumors stiffly, tried to ignore them - but they just fueled his anger and confusion; did Stiles hate him? Why wouldn't Stiles come to him, help him? Why was Derek there, if not to bear his children?

When his next heat came, Derek went into it scared, and for good reason; it was the worst one yet, the heat so strong he was delirious, his skin like paper, his mouth like the desert. He became utterly lost to it, clutching mindlessly at his sheets, groaning when they stuck to his sticky, sensitive thighs. And then - and then, it was as if a breeze rolled through the room; fingers brushed his shoulder, his cheek, his dry temple.

“I'm sorry,” whispered a voice. “I'm sorry I wasn't here.”

Derek cracked his eyes open, and a thrill of relief rushed up his skin when he saw Stiles leaning over him, his brow furrowed with worry. “Please,” Derek said hoarsely. “Stiles - “

“Shh,” Stiles said soothingly, leaning down to press a kiss to Derek’s forehead. He reared back and Derek could just see him pulling off his robes and then he climbed onto the bed with Derek and Derek whined with the touch of so much skin to skin.

It was - bliss. Stiles mated him when he needed it and in the moments in between where life slowed, he was everything Derek had secretly dreamed of in a mate; Stiles kissed him and held him, fed him by hand the food servants brought them. Derek felt safe and wanted for the first time - felt, for the first time, that Stiles cared about him. He slept soundly with his head tucked against Stiles’ throat, and when he woke up in the morning, his heat had broken and Stiles had returned to the battlefield without a word to him.

In the days that followed, Derek didn't know _how_ to feel. He felt...stupid for believing that Stiles might care about him, and angry at himself for falling for Stiles’ trap. His resentment grew and grew until when the day came that a messenger came hurrying in while Derek presided over court and announced that the battle was over and their kingdom had been victorious, Derek almost snapped at him to tell Stiles to stay out there another year, for all he cared. He couldn’t of course, especially not with Stiles’ father looking so relieved.

It was another two days before Stiles returned to the castle, and Derek’s anger continued to build, boiling in his chest. He was in his room - _their_ room, he supposed, for all that Stiles had spent a week there since since they were married - reading on one of the couches when Stiles returned. It was late at night and Stiles slunk in quietly, like he thought Derek would be asleep and didn't want to wake him. Derek was not asleep; he set down his book and frowned at Stiles, who seemed to flinch a little when he spotted Derek.

Stiles was covered in mud from the journey; there were fine flecks of it across his face, a smear on his cheek. He opened his mouth and then closed it, then opened it again to say, “I’m - going to bathe.”

Derek didn’t respond; he watched Stiles cross their room and disappear into the bathing chamber beyond the doorway. Derek attempted to return to his book, but Stiles’ appearance had stirred the anger simmering in his chest, and he could ignore it no longer. He shut his book and left the couch to follow Stiles into the bath.

Stiles was halfway undressed, frowning to himself as he unlaced his leathers. His frown deepened when he noticed Derek watching him, his hands stilling. “Yes?” he asked.

“Have I done something to make you dislike me so?” Derek asked, trying to keep his voice even and mostly failing.

Stiles looked surprised. “I don’t dislike you,” he said.

“Then why do you treat me as if I mean nothing to you?” Derek pressed, anger making his face hot. “You ignore my heats for months and then when you finally appear, you - you _dare_ treat me like I’m precious to you - only to disappear the next morning!”

Stiles’ mouth twisted downward. “Things are - different in heat, you know that,” he said. “People are - ”

“No, I _don’t_ know that!” Derek snapped. “The only person I’ve ever spent my heat with is you!”

Stiles shut his mouth, his eyes widening. Beyond him, Derek saw a servant carrying in a pot of hot water for the bath take one look at them and then back out of the room hurriedly.

“Why did you marry me?” Derek bit out, hurt and embarrassed. “If you won’t mate me - if I can’t give you an heir - what use am I to you?”

Stiles looked shocked at this. “What use? My father says you’ve done an amazing job running the kingdom while I’ve been away. He says you’re an excellent statesman.”

Derek laughed bitterly. “And? Now that you’ve returned, what will my role be?”

Stiles seemed to be struggling to think of something to say; it was a long moment before he asked, carefully, “What do you want from our relationship?”

Derek stared at him, caught off guard by the question. “I…” His gaze dropped to his feet as he thought about it. What _did_ he want? Deep down, he wanted love, but he didn’t expect that from Stiles. He just...still felt lonely, even after months in the country. “I - want to bond with you,” he told his feet, his face warm.

“Oh,” Stiles said wonderingly. He was silent for a moment while Derek continued to stare at the floor, not daring to look up at him. Then he said, “I didn't think you wanted that. I thought - after our wedding night - ” Derek winced, and Stiles didn’t miss it; he hurriedly continued, “I just thought - perhaps it would be better to stay away during your heats. I’d never force myself upon you; I thought you didn’t want me.”

Derek swallowed hard. “I was too nervous that night,” he said, finally forcing himself to look at Stiles. “I wanted to be good for you and I failed. I couldn't speak your language yet - I couldn't tell you - “

“Oh,” Stiles said again, softly.

“Why did you marry me?” Derek asked again, his mouth dry. “My sister’s kingdom isn't rich - what could she have offered you?”

“I couldn't let your people starve, not in good conscience,” Stiles said quietly.

“But you could have just sent aid,” Derek pressed. “Why - “

“I had other offers,” Stiles told him, “but when we met - I wasn't sure what to expect. I didn't know what you were feeling - if you were doing it against your will. But your sister told me that it was your own suggestion, and I thought - “ Stiles drew in a deep breath before continuing, “I thought that anyone willing to marry to save his people, even if it meant marrying a complete stranger and moving to a kingdom where he didn't know the language, was the type of person I'd want to share my kingdom with, and you haven't disappointed me.” Stiles bowed his head, a sarcastic smile twisting his lips. “I _am_ sorry that I've failed you as a husband.”

“I didn't know that,” Derek said quietly.

“I haven't made much of an effort to tell you, have I?” Stiles replied. He looked at Derek seriously. “I’ll admit that I used the border trouble as an excuse to stay away. I don't think I was quite ready to be married, but I shouldn't have ignored you. I should have - “ He drew in another deep breath. “You came into this marriage so willingly, and I should have done the same. I'm sorry.”

Derek watched him for a long moment, his head spinning. “I - appreciate the apology,” he said eventually. There was more he wanted to say, questions he wanted to ask, but he couldn't get his thoughts in order.

Stiles seemed to recognize this, for he said, “May I take a moment to bathe, and then we can continue our conversation? The itching of this mud is driving me mad.”

“Yes,” Derek said, relieved. “Yes, of course.”

Stiles gave him a faint smile, and Derek left him then, returning to the couch where he’d left his book. He sat and opened it, but he didn’t read, his mind far away. He wished, of course, that they'd had this discussion months ago, but he felt entirely hopeful that they could still build a solid relationship. He thought about what Stiles had said about wanting to share the kingdom with him, and a warm glow filled his chest.

Presently, Stiles emerged from the bathing chamber, his hair wet, dressed in a loose night shirt, and he didn’t hesitate to sink down onto the couch next to Derek. “I was thinking,” he said, without preamble. “Because of the trouble on the border, there was never really a chance to present you to our kingdom. What would you think if we went on a tour - so you can meet our people and,” he added, a little shyly, “we can get to know each other.”

“I would like that,” Derek said without thought. He would, truly. “Are you sure you wish to spend all day in a carriage with me?”

Stiles’ mouth quirked up on one side. “I think I could survive,” he said. “Though whether you do is another matter - my father tells me I'm an atrocious traveling partner.”

“Never mind,” Derek said. “There are ways to stay busy on the road.”

“Yes, there are,” Stiles agreed, his eyes dropping briefly to Derek’s mouth. Then he seemed to realize what he’d insinuated, for his cheeks flushed a ruddy red.

But Derek was curious. “Do you desire me?”

“Yes,” Stiles said, after a moment’s hesitation, but to Derek's consternation he looked almost ashamed. “I have since the day we met in person. I felt guilty for enjoying your heat so much because I thought you'd never want me otherwise.”

“That's not true,” Derek told him. “I enjoyed my heat very much.”

Such a hopeful look came over Stiles’ face then that Derek moved almost automatically, leaning in toward him until his brain caught up and froze him in place. Stiles sat very still, watching him with wide eyes - but then he lifted a hand and carefully cupped Derek's cheek, his touch warm, hand rough from wielding a sword. “May I kiss you?” he asked carefully.

“Yes,” Derek said, his mouth dry. He closed his eyes as Stiles leaned in, exhaling softly when their lips touched. Stiles kissed him gently, his hand on Derek’s cheek steady, and it was all Derek wanted - to feel cared for, to have someone to trust. When they finally pulled apart and Derek dared open his eyes, he found himself entranced by the look on Stiles’ face, his dark eyes soft yet sparkling with life. Stiles had meant well by staying away, Derek thought, most of the anger gone from him. Misguided though he was, Derek couldn’t hold it against him.

“Will you come to bed?” Stiles asked him, his hand settling on Derek’s knee. “The journey was long, and I’m tired.”

“Yes,” Derek said again, hope rising in him.

Stiles smiled, taking one of Derek’s hands in his and raising it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Come then, my king,” he said, rising to his feet. “Let us start again.”


	98. Chapter 98

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **More from the a mountain to climb universe. Takes place around eighteen months after the last ficlet.**  
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, ABO, mpreg mention, kidfic

****“Is that really a _diamond?”_ Evie asks Kira, enthralled by the sparkling stone on her wedding ring.

“It is,” Kira says, her cheeks dimpling as she smiles. “The little blue ones are sapphires.”

_“Pretty,”_ Evie says, starry-eyed. She takes Derek’s hand and looks at it, disappointed when she sees the simple gold band on his finger. “Papa, your ring is _boring.”_

“Your dad’s not into diamonds,” Stiles says from across the picnic table. “I tried to convince him, Ev, but he wasn’t having it.”

Evie looks up at Derek as though he’s betrayed her very being. “I’m sorry,” he says apologetically, not entirely sure why he’s apologizing. “Maybe for our anniversary.” In his arms, Poppy shrieks like she agrees, stretching her little hands out toward Evie, who wrinkles her nose.

“Can I have a popsicle?” she asks plaintively.

“Go for it,” Stiles says. “And bring me a raspberry one, please.”

“You’ll spoil your dinner,” Kira says, her eyes sparkling, as Evie hops up from the table and runs toward the house.

“Nah, a little frozen juice concentrate and high fructose corn syrup never hurt anyone,” Stiles says with a wink. “Besides, I think Scott just pulled up.”

Sure enough, they all soon hear Evie’s delighted yell of “Uncle Scott!” and she reappears from inside the house with popsicles clutched in one hand and Scott being dragged along behind her with the other, both of them beaming widely.

“What a handsome fella,” Stiles says fondly, propping his chin on his hand, laughing when Scott flushes. “You too, of course,” he adds, winking at Derek.

“Thanks, I was feeling left out,” Derek replies dryly.

“So, Ev,” Scott says, watching her industriously unpeel her popsicle from its wrapper. “It’s almost Halloween. Know what you’re going to be?”

Evie nods smartly, swinging her legs back and forth. “A bug,” she says.

Scott shoots Derek and Stiles a grin. “A bug?” he repeats. “What kind?”

“A ladybug?” Kira asks brightly.

“Nope,” Evie says, licking placidly at her popsicle. “A praying mantis.”

“Oh,” Kira says, her eyes widening. Stiles looks up at the sky, fighting back laughter. “That’s - an interesting choice.”

“We have one in our classroom,” Evie tells her matter of factly. “She had a husband, but then she ate him.”

“Evie’s hardcore,” Stiles agrees, grinning broadly. “We’ve been working on the costume for weeks.” Derek clears his throat, and Stiles amends guiltily, _“Derek’s_ been working on it for weeks. It’s _good_ though, here - ” He pulls out his phone so he can show them what Derek’s been doing.

Derek leaves him to it, turning his head to listen to the ambient noise of the woods. There’s a car coming down the road - Laura’s; they’re not expecting anyone else. He kisses the top of Poppy’s head and gets to his feet. “Laura,” he says, to Stiles’ questioning look, and hands Poppy off to him so he can go help his sister.

Laura’s just getting out of the car when he comes around the side of the house. She’s looking harried; her son’s yelling in the back seat, kicking his legs against his booster seat. “Fine, fine,” Laura sighs, lifting him out of the car; the second his feet touch the ground, he’s running. Laura raises her hands wearily. “Go on - attack, then, you hooligan.”

“Laura,” Derek says reproachfully, as Jem flies past him.

She rolls her eyes at Derek and calls, “James, say hi to Derek!”

Jem spins around to yell “Hi Uncle Derek!” and trips over a branch in the grass. It doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest; he’s up on his feet and heading for the backyard again in an instant.

Laura presses her hands to her cheeks as Derek approaches. “God help me,” she says wearily. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Derek says, leaning in to bump his cheek against hers. “Need a hand?”

She gives him a grateful smile and he helps her unload the food out of the back of her car. By the time they go into the backyard, Scott has commandeered the grill and Kira’s chopping veggies for a salad while Stiles sits with Poppy, watching Jem try to goad Evie into playing tag with him. She regards him with the haughtiness that only two years’ seniority can bring, but Jem loves Evie. Laura adopted him three years ago, when he was only two, but Evie was the first family member he really bonded with - and sure enough, Evie’s face soon splits into a very Stiles-like grin and Jem takes off like a shot, howling with laughter as she gives chase.

On Halloween, Stiles and Derek take the kids trick or treating, driving over to the neighborhood Stiles’ dad lives in, where the houses are more densely packed - for more candy, in Evie’s words. They bring Jem with them, having taken pity on Laura and giving her the night off, but he’s well-behaved for once, clinging to Evie’s arm as they skip down the sidewalk. Derek’s inordinately proud of the praying mantis costume, though he and Stiles are choking back near-constant laughter at the confusion on the faces of the people who open their doors to them. Derek carries Poppy, who’s dressed as parrot and doesn’t really understand what they’re doing, but she seems up for the adventure anyway, pulling excitedly at Derek’s collar anytime she sees a kid in costume.

By the time they get back to the house, the kids are drooping with exhaustion - Poppy’s already asleep, and Evie falls asleep sorting her candy by type from most acquired (Reese’s) to least (Good and Plentys). Jem tries to hold out, but he passes out while Stiles is changing Poppy into her pajamas, so Derek carries him and Ev into Evie’s room and tucks them into bed.

When Stiles reappears, he brightens, seeing they’re alone. “Want to watch a scary movie?” he asks delightedly.

Derek grimaces. “Do we have to?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Get into the Halloween spirit, jeeze.”

Derek relents, knowing how much Stiles loves horror movies. “Fine,” he sighs, allowing Stiles to take him by the hand and pull him onto the couch. “Nothing too scary, though.”

“I’ll hold your hand,” Stiles says, grinning at him. He puts on _The Shining,_ which they’ve both seen a thousand times, and they curl together on the couch, taking full advantage of a few hours’ peace. It’s rare these days - not that Derek would have it any other way, but the kids are always around, and even now they’re on the periphery of his senses; he can hear Jem’s soft snores and Evie’s even breathing, Poppy’s heart beating steadily further down the hall.

“Remember that Halloween party we went to in college?” Stiles asks, his cheek pressed to Derek’s chest.

“Mm,” Derek says thoughtfully, rubbing his nose slowly against Stiles’ hairline. “That was a fun one.” They hadn’t done much partying in college, too busy with school and Evie to bother with it, but one of their neighbors had volunteered herself to watch Ev for the night, and Stiles had dragged Derek out to a rager of a house party. “You dressed like a mummy.”

Stiles laughs. “Trying to go to the bathroom in that costume was hell,” he says, grinning. “And you got all mad because you thought I was trying to flirt with that dude in that terrible dinosaur costume when all I wanted was that bottle of rum he was hoarding.”

Derek snorts quietly. “You _do_ know how to use your hips.”

“Mmhmm,” Stiles hums, sounding pleased. He sneaks his hands under Derek’s shirt, his palms warm against Derek’s stomach. “It’s an omega speciality.”

“As I recall,” Derek says, “you blew me in the bathroom after.”

“Yep,” Stiles agrees, twisting around so he can pull himself into Derek’s lap, straddling his thighs. Behind him on the tv, Jack Nicholson hammers away at a typewriter. “And _you_ forgot to lock the door and one of my TAs walked in on us.”

Derek laughs. “Didn’t stop you, did it?”

“Nope,” Stiles says cheerfully. He curls his arms over Derek’s shoulders. “Do you think our kinky days are over?”

Derek lets his hands settle at Stiles’ hips, squeezing gently. “Never.” He rubs a thumb over Stiles’ hipbone, sharp even through the cotton of his shirt. “Maybe we can find someone to take the kids for a week and we can go on vacation.”

Stiles’ eyes light up. “You know, we never did do that weekend in Sacramento you promised before Evie was born.”

Derek snorts again. “I think we can do better than Sacramento.”

Stiles grins, but the look slowly fades, his expression going thoughtful. “Look, speaking of the kids, I - ” He stops, biting his lip nervously. Derek waits patiently for him to gather his courage and Stiles eventually does, saying all in a rush, “I want another one.”

“Sick of the old models already?” Derek asks without thinking.

Stiles slugs him in the shoulder. “Fuck you,” he says. “It’s just - Poppy’s eighteen months already. I'm getting old. I - “

_“You're_ getting old?” Derek retorts, offended. “What does that make me?”

“Devilishly handsome, as always,” Stiles replies, looking almost mournful about it.

Derek’s quiet for a moment, and then he asks, “You’re serious?”

Stiles looks at him, and Derek can see it in his face, the want there. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. I just thought...three’s a good number, right? And I know you want more kids.”

“That’s true,” Derek says slowly.

“So?” Stiles says eagerly. “What do you think?”

Derek’s quiet, thinking. After a long minute passes and he still hasn’t said anything, some of the eagerness fades from Stiles’ face. “No?” he says.

“It’s not no,” Derek says. “I've been thinking about it too, and I want more kids, but - not at the expense of your health.” Stiles’ brow furrows, and Derek says, “Last time, with Poppy - I almost lost you - _both_ of you - and I can't. If you - if I lost you - “

Stiles’ face softens, and he puts his hands to Derek’s cheeks, broad palms warm. “Hey,” he says gently. “I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to do anything to put myself - or a baby - at risk. Last time was scary for me too. We can talk to Dr. Yukimura before we decide anything - see what she thinks.”

“I think that's a good idea,” Derek says quietly.

“But you do?” Stiles asks. “Want to try for another, I mean?”

“Yes,” Derek says. He doesn't have to think about it; there’s a reason why they built the house with five bedrooms. He hesitates before asking, “What if you can’t? What if Dr. Yukimura thinks it’s a bad idea?”

Stiles is quiet for a long moment, his gaze falling somewhere around Derek’s sternum. His long fingers trail up and down Derek’s shoulders, tracing the hollows of his collarbones. “Is that a deal breaker?” he asks, biting at his lip.

“What?” Derek says, startled. “No, of course not. Stiles.” He puts his fingers under Stiles’ chin, forces him to look up. “I _want_ more kids, but if that doesn't happen - that’s fine. We’ve got two amazing kids already, and I've got you, and if it comes down to it, that’s all I need.”

Stiles’ face does something complicated, his eyes dark and wet. “How was I so lucky?” he murmurs. “To end up with you?”

Derek smiles faintly, his heart aching with the love he feels for Stiles. “I’m the lucky one,” he says. “Even if we never had any kids at all - I’d want you. No one else.”

Stiles smiles shakily. “I love you,” he says, folding his arms around Derek’s neck. He rubs his cheek against Derek’s, kisses his jaw. “I love you,” he says again. “My alpha.”

_“Stiles,”_ Derek says, his whole body going warm.

On tv behind them, unnoticed by either, Jack Nicholson takes an ax to a door and Shelley Duvall starts to scream.

-

Stiles is quiet on the way home from the doctor’s, his brow slightly furrowed. Derek keeps glancing over at him as he drives, and while they’re idling at a stop light, he reaches over and takes Stiles’ hand, Stiles’ fingers reflexively curling around his. “What are you thinking?” Derek asks him.

Stiles scratches at his cheek with his free hand, frowning out the window before glancing over at Derek. “I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t processed it yet.”

Derek’s surprised by this. “Aren’t you happy?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, looking out the window again as the light turns green. “But - I don’t know. I really thought she was going to say no. I was...so ready for her to say no that I wasn’t ready for her to say yes. I just - there’s a lot to think about now that I didn’t really let myself think about before.”

“That’s okay,” Derek says. “It’s not something we should take lightly.” He glances over and catches Stiles chewing on his lip. “I meant what I said the other night,” he adds. “Two kids is enough for me. It’s your body - if you decide you don’t want to carry another kid, that’s fine.”

Stiles gives him a faint smile. “Thanks,” he says, “but I’m not making any decisions yet. I just need time to process it.”

“Yeah, of course,” Derek says, relieved. “I didn’t think we’d stay trying _today.”_

Stiles laughs. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he teases. “Think of all the nasty heat sex we can have.”

“Don’t tease me like that,” Derek says mournfully.

“You big baby,” Stiles says fondly, patting his hand as they pull up in front of the house. “We can still have nasty heat sex if I go off the suppressants - you just have to wear a condom.”

Derek sighs softly and gets out of the car, but he catches Stiles before he can start walking toward the house, drawing him into an embrace. Stiles leans into him, pressing his forehead to Derek’s.

“Whatever you decide,” Derek tells him seriously, “I’ll support you.”

“I’m not just going to make up my mind without letting you weigh in,” Stiles replies, kissing the tip of Derek’s nose. “We’re a team. We decide together.”

Derek smiles and follows Stiles as he heads into the house. Stiles’ dad is watching the kids for them, gracefully losing to Ev at Candyland, bouncing Poppy on his knee. John looks up at Stiles as they walk in, his eyes narrowing. “How’d it go?” he asks warily.

Stiles shrugs, plucking Poppy off his dad’s lap. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m going to go lay down for a while.”

Derek and John both turn to watch him step out onto the back deck and cross the yard, heading for the hammock strung between two trees. Derek watches him turn his head to talk to Poppy, a smile curving his lips as she laughs.

_“Is_ it fine?” John asks Derek worriedly. “He’s acting funny.”

“The doctor said we could try,” Derek says, still watching Stiles; he’s settling himself into the hammock, swinging Poppy with him. He faintly hears her shriek with laughter. Derek looks at John, then at Evie, who’s watching him too, her dark eyes curious. “He’s fine,” he says, smiling for her. To John he adds, “He wasn’t expecting her to say we could.”

“Ah,” John says, getting to his feet. “A lot to think about.” He looks down at Evie and solemnly says, “You played a good game, young lady.”

“Thank you, Grandpa,” Evie says, just as solemnly. Derek half expects them to shake hands, but John just leans down and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“I’ll give you guys some space,” John says, heading for the front door. “Don’t forget dinner on Tuesday.”

Derek waves him out, and then it’s just him and Evie. He watches her carefully pack up the board game, putting everything neatly back into the box, and then he looks out the back door. Stiles has sunk down into the hammock, though he’s got one long leg stretched out over the side so he can push against the ground, rocking them back and forth. Derek looks at Evie again. “Ev,” he says. “Why don’t you go outside and tell your dad how much you love him?”

Evie looks at him curiously. “Is Daddy okay?”

“He’s fine,” Derek tells her. “He’s just having a day.”

Evie nods seriously and pushes her chair back from the table, dropping to the floor. Derek watches her slip out the back door and trot across the backyard. She leans on the side of the hammock, pulling it down low enough that he can see Stiles turn his face to look at her. He smiles at whatever she says to him and he says something in reply; in a moment, Ev scrambles into the hammock with him and Poppy. Derek smiles to himself and gives them space; he moves around the house, tossing toys back into bedrooms, putting a load of laundry into the washing machine. He cleans up the kitchen, wiping down the counters, and as he rinses off the sponge, he looks again into the backyard; the hammock has stilled, though Stiles’ leg is still crooked over the side.

Derek smiles again and heads for the back door, pausing only to grab a blanket off the back of the couch. It’s cool out, the fall sunlight warm, the grass sweet under his feet as he walks softly across the yard. He stops by the hammock, looking down at his family, all three of them asleep in the fresh air. The girls both sleep with their heads turned toward Stiles, Poppy’s thumb tucked in her mouth, Evie’s head pushed right up under Stiles’ chin. The girls are _their_ children, but their bond with Stiles is beyond any they have with Derek - intense, unbreakable. Derek’s not jealous; it makes sense. Stiles carried them, nursed them, bonded with them before they even entered the world. All Derek feels, looking down at them, is intense pride and a deep, deep love.

He bends, gently draping the blanket over them, and as he straightens, Stiles’ hand shoots out, catching him by the wrist. “Don’t go far,” he murmurs, eyes still shut.

“I won’t,” Derek replies gently, and he doesn’t, settling down on the grass at the base of one of the trees the hammock is stretched between. He leans against the tree, the bark rough against his back, and closes his eyes, listening to his loved ones’ hearts beat. He’s not going anywhere.


	99. Chapter 99

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Finally, a thing that's not dudes having babies.**  
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, future fic, canon compliant, establish relationship au 
> 
> **WARNING:** Brief mention of suicidal thoughts

It's a shitty motel. The place smells stale and mildewy, with an undertone of old cigarettes even though it’s a non-smoking room. Derek breathes through his mouth and tries not to think about it; he stares up at the ceiling, where a water stain shaped like Florida browns the tiles, and tries not to think about anything at all. It doesn’t really work; his heart’s racing with anticipation and nervousness about tomorrow, full of hope even though it’s been seven weeks of fruitless searching. If he strikes out tomorrow, it’ll be the fifth time, and he doesn’t know how many more disappointments he can take. Or, even worse - what if he finds Stiles and Stiles still doesn’t want anything to do with him?

He doesn’t know what went wrong with them. Stiles never told him; all Derek knows is that in the weeks before he disappeared, he’d been withdrawn, unhappy - and then one day, he hadn’t been there at all. It took Derek half a day to panic about it; it was Scott texting him to say Stiles wasn’t responding to his texts and was he okay? before Derek realized Stiles wasn’t responding to him either and - sometimes Stiles went quiet like that, but he always responded to Scott. He called Stiles’ phone over and over, but it went straight to voicemail, so he’d either shut it off, or it’d died. Derek tried the Find My Friends and it showed Stiles’ last location in Beacon Hills, which made him feel a little better until he went into the bathroom and noticed Stiles’ toothbrush was missing.

They weren’t living together - not officially - but Stiles stayed at Derek’s place five, six nights a week, and his things had slowly started taking up residence there. Half of it was gone now; he’d left the odds and ends on top of the dresser, but his drawers were cleared out. He’d taken his toothbrush from the bathroom and a picture of the pack off the fridge and left everything else behind - his books, his Playstation, his games and DVDs. Derek looked under the bed for Stiles’ journal where he kept all his notes on herbs and lore, but it wasn’t there; his phone was, and a note that said _don’t look for me._ Then, and only then, Derek panicked.

Now, in the dark, Derek rolls onto his stomach, his heart hurting. Stiles had dropped out of college his sophomore year, came home taller and unhappier, his face thin. He still suffered from nightmares even years after the nogitsune left him, and sometimes he’d show up at Derek’s place in the middle of the night, his eyes red, and he’d sleep on the couch or, later, in Derek’s bed. He never talked about it - he never talked about anything he was feeling - but the dark half moons under his eyes faded a little, and sometimes Derek could make him laugh and sometimes he made Derek laugh, and Derek had thought, stupidly, that meant he was doing okay. He feels immensely guilty about it now; he should have known better, should have tried harder to get Stiles to talk to him. Whether it was the dreams, or something Derek did or didn’t do, or something else entirely, he should have figured it out before Stiles disappeared.

Deep inside, he’s scared for Stiles, scared he’s hurt himself or worse. Scott doesn’t believe it; he says Stiles took his things - he took the picture of the pack - and that means he’s okay, wherever he is. Derek wants to believe him, desperately, but the phone, the note, the abrupt departure, and the finality of it all doesn’t give him much hope. Scott’s great fault is that he always believes in the best of people, but Derek’s always believed in the worst.

-

In the morning, Derek drives north. The land is flat and vast here, though there are steep blue mountains far in the distance on his left - the Rockies, he thinks; he’s far enough west. He drives for hours, then leaves Highway 89 and drives east, drives until the road goes from paved to dirt, and then he stops and waits. It’s quiet out here; one side of the road is all grass, the other shoulder-high rows of corn, and all of it sways in the breeze, a soft, endless noise like ocean waves.

It takes less time than he thinks; not even five minutes later, a cloud of dust appears on the horizon, which eventually resolves into a pickup truck barrelling down the road toward him. Derek gets out of his car so they can see it’s just him, leans up against the side of the car and tries to look as calm and nonthreatening as possible. His palms prickle with sweat.

The truck stops twenty feet away, gravel crunching under its tires, and two betas get out of the cab. One’s blonde and stocky, the other dark-haired and tall and they both give Derek curious, not-quite-friendly looks.

“You’re on pack land,” the tall beta says.

“I know,” Derek replies, bending his head apologetically. “I came to see your emissary.” He holds his breath; this is the moment of truth.

The betas look at each other. The blonde beta raises his eyebrows at Derek. “You want to make a claim on him?”

Derek exhales. _Him._ “No,” he says, thinking about Stiles spread across their bed, twisted in their sheets, his face pensive, gaze distant. His heart hurts. Stiles was never his. He swallows and adds, “I just need to talk to him.”

The betas exchange glances again. “Okay,” the blonde one says. He looks Derek up and down and adds, “What pack are you from?”

“Beacon Hills,” Derek tells him. The beta looks confused. “Northern California,” he adds.

“Oh,” says the beta, shrugging. “Well - you can follow us.”

Derek nods and they get back into their respective cars. He waits for the truck to pull a wide u-turn, ripping up the grass off the side of the road, and then he follows, far enough back that he’s not lost in the cloud of dust kicked up by the truck’s tires. They crest a low hill, and when they come down the other side, Derek can see farm buildings - several long, low barns, clusters of sheds, a large house with a big front porch. He can see other houses spread out in the fields beyond - pack houses, probably. He’d hit up Deaton for information when the pack near Topeka had turned up a lead on Stiles, and Deaton had told him the Valier pack live all together on a working ranch, raising cattle and feed-corn on a couple hundred acres of land. They’re a pack far older than Derek’s own; most of them are of Blackfeet Indian descent, and they’ve lived on the land for centuries.

The betas in the truck pull up in front of the big house and Derek stops behind them, getting out when they do. He moves cautiously, carefully; the last thing he wants is to be seen as a threat and be driven from the land. All he wants is Stiles - even just a _minute_ with Stiles, if it’s really him here.

His hands are shaking, he realizes; Derek crosses his arms over his chest to hide them.

“I’ll see if I can track him down,” the tall beta tells Derek, and trots off across the yard, disappearing into one of the barns.

The blonde beta watches him go, then says to Derek, “I should tell our alpha you’re here. Keep an eye out for people on four-wheelers.”

Derek’s nerves are so bad he can only nod, and the blonde beta watches him for a long moment before he walks up the steps of the big house, crosses the porch, and steps inside. It’s suddenly quiet again; he can hear the far-off lowing of cattle somewhere, and inside the house, kids laugh.

It’s years, maybe centuries, before he sees movement in the barn the tall beta had disappeared into, one person moving in the dim interior. He holds his breath, his heartbeat hammering in his ears when Stiles steps out into the light of the yard. He looks - _good._ Derek doesn’t know what he was expecting, but Stiles looks healthier than he has in months; the dark circles under his eyes are gone, his face fuller, his skin tanned. He’s dressed in dirty jeans and heavy work boots, and when he sees Derek, his eyes widen in shock.

And Derek - Derek is so relieved to see him that he has to lean against the car to keep himself steady. For months he cycled violently through so many emotions - anger, fear, misery, resignation - and now it all comes hammering back. It hurts so much he doesn’t know what to do; part of him wants to yell at Stiles while another, greater part of him wants to wrap himself around Stiles and never let him go. They never really talked about their feelings for each other - another mistake - but it’s not until this moment when Derek sees him for the first time in five fucking months that it hits him how deeply he loves him - _still_ loves him, even after all of this.

Stiles hesitates a moment and then crosses the yard, stopping a couple yards away from Derek. He doesn’t look happy - he almost looks scared, his body language radiating tension. Derek can smell him, achingly familiar, and that’s another blow; his sheets stopped smelling like Stiles months ago, and he’s forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by it.

They stare at each other for a long moment and then Stiles quietly asks, “How’d you find me?”

“Your postcard,” Derek says, and Stiles flinches. It’d come in the mail three months after he left, a picture of some lakeside town in New Hampshire on one side, and an unsigned note on the back: _I fucked everything up. I’m sorry._ Before the postcard arrived, Derek had resigned himself to the thought that he’d lost Stiles. After it came, well...it seemed like a sign, a clue: _I’m here. Come get me._

He’d set off across the country the next day, searching, searching, until he found the little town on the lake and the small pack in the woods beyond, whose emissary told Derek he’d spent the last three months training Stiles. After that, Derek had followed his path back across the states as he bounced from pack to pack. Derek doesn’t understand what he seeks, doesn’t understand why it can’t be found in Beacon Hills - with him.

“Why?” Derek asks quietly. There are so many questions he wants to ask - _Why did you leave? Why didn’t you tell me? How could you do this to me?_ \- but he can barely get the one word out, hurt tainting his voice.

Stiles looks at his feet, misery written in every line of his face. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, hunching his shoulders.

“Stiles,” Derek says plaintively. “Stiles, _please.”_

Stiles lifts his head a little, his eyes wide and vulnerable. Derek reaches for him, wordless, and after a long moment, Stiles sways into his arms, thunking his body against Derek’s. He tucks his head under Derek’s chin and Derek curls his arms around him, tight, tight, and neither of them speaks for a long time. Derek listens to the cattle low and Stiles’ heart hammer in his chest and he says, “You scared me.”

Stiles shudders. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Talk to me,” Derek says, _begs._ “Please, Stiles.”

“No,” Stiles mumbles. His breathing’s picking up; he smells like sweat and fear and hurt. “No - ”

Someone clears their throat and Stiles jerks away from Derek, who reaches for him again, hurt, but Stiles stays out of his reach, his face grim. Derek looks to see who interrupted them; the blonde beta’s back with a wizened old woman - the Valier alpha, Derek assumes. He straightens, trying to keep a respectful look on his face even though he’s irritated and frustrated they were interrupted. The old woman looks at Stiles, who scrubs his hands over his eyes, and then at Derek, and she says, “I don’t like strange wolves coming onto my land without notice.”

Derek draws in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, alpha,” he says carefully, aware that saying the wrong thing could have him kicked off their territory, losing him any chance of being able to talk to Stiles. “I meant no disrespect. I just wanted to talk to Stiles.”

The alpha raises her eyebrows, looking at Stiles again. He nods stiffly. “I need to get back to work,” he says flatly.

“Stiles - ” Derek tries, his heart sinking, but Stiles ignores him, stomping off across the yard and disappearing back into the barn. Derek looks back at the alpha, prepared to be expelled from the pack territory, but she seems to take pity on him.

“You came a long way for him,” she says. “Come inside, have something to eat.”

“Thank you,” Derek says cautiously. He’s not really in the mood to be social, but if he _isn’t_ being driven away, then maybe he’ll get another chance to talk to Stiles. He still has no idea what made Stiles leave, and the not knowing, the not being able to help - it’s driving him crazy. He remembers that he’s not the only one - he needs to call Scott and tell him, so Scott can tell Stiles’ dad, but he doesn’t dare not follow the wizened alpha into the lodge.

They step into a great room, open to the second story and filled with long tables - a place to eat, Derek realizes; there are people laying out dishes and cutlery along the lengths of the table, giving Derek incurious looks as he follows the alpha across the room. They pass a massive stone fireplace - it’s lit; Derek feels the heat and smells the smoke and wrinkles his nose, giving it a width berth - and stop in a small sitting area off the main room, plush armchairs bathed in the honeyed light of the late afternoon sun. The alpha bades him to sit and Derek does, sinking into one of the armchairs. He’s so tired; reality is beginning to sink in that he’s finally, _finally_ found Stiles. His hands are shaking again; Derek curls his fingers against his jeans.

The Valier alpha - Renee, she says - and Derek talk for a long time. She asks him about the pack, about Beacon Hills - she’s never heard of them, though she heard vague rumors of the alpha pack years ago. She’s never heard of Derek’s family either, though that doesn’t surprise him much; for all that they used to be respected in California, they hadn’t been around all that long, the first member of the pack having come to the state in the mid 1800s during the gold rush - bitten after making it rich.

Someone comes in and gives Derek a cup of coffee; he drinks it gratefully. The conversation finally turns to Stiles, but neither of them are very forthcoming with information. Renee knows that Stiles came from a pack in California, but he doesn’t appear to have shared much other history with her. She says he showed up on their land a month ago, saying the pack in Kansas had told him the Valiers were looking for a new emissary, but he’d been close-mouthed about where he’d been before that, or why he’d left Beacon Hills.

She asks about the nature of their relationships, and Derek hesitates for a long moment before replying. He’s not sure _what_ to say - that they were together over a year, that they were almost living together, that sometimes late at night, Derek murmured _I love you_ and Stiles whispered it back, but they’d never had a discussion about what they were to each other. “It’s complicated,” he says eventually, knowing it’s a cop-out, but Renee nods.

Derek eventually finds himself with an invitation to join the pack for dinner, which he accepts with the hope it might bring him another chance to talk to Stiles. The communal dining room grows loud as more of the pack filters in, their voices loud and boisterous. Derek receives plenty of curious looks as people find their seats but to his disappointment, when Stiles eventually shows up, he barely looks in Derek’s direction, finding a place at a table far across the hall. Derek pretends like he’s not hurt, but he is, deep down.

He should have known better, he supposes, based on the way Stiles disappeared on him, but he’d had a picture of their reunion in his head and it’d gone far better than this. His head and heart feel heavy; maybe he’d made a mistake coming here. He’s been so reluctant to let go of Stiles that it’s never occurred to him that maybe Stiles already has. The thought hurts immensely; it’s enough that when he sees Stiles finish his meal and leave, he doesn’t try to follow. Instead, he picks morosely at dessert - cherry pie - until Renee pulls the plate away and says, “Go talk to him.”

Derek sighs but politely says, “Thank you for dinner,” as he gets to his feet.

Renee waves dismissively. “He’s got the small cabin behind the barns,” she says. Derek nods his thanks and slowly makes his way out of the lodge, feeling curious eyes on him as he goes. The sun’s settled below the horizon outside, but it’s still light enough to see by, the air fresh. He can’t pick Stiles’ cabin out from the others, but he can follow Stiles’ scent, familiar yet half forgotten, across the yard and between two long, low barns. He doesn’t need to follow his scent after that; Stiles is sitting on the front steps of one of the cabins, arms over his knees. Derek grits his teeth and heads Stiles’ direction, half expecting Stiles to get up and go inside, lock the door on him.

But Stiles just sits there, and when Derek’s close enough, Stiles says, “I thought you’d be out here sooner.”

Derek’s mouth thins. “I was trying to be polite.”

“Only because you didn’t want to be kicked off our land,” Stiles says. “I know you.”

Derek’s stomach twists at the way Stiles just said _our_ \- like Derek and the rest of Beacon Hills is old news. Hurt, he says, “I don’t know _you_.” He thought it’d feel good to hurt Stiles back, but he just feels more unhappy at the way Stiles flinches. Silence stretches between them, Stiles looking at his hands clasped over his knees, until Derek gives. “Stop running away from me,” he pleads.

Stiles smiles sarcastically. “I’m right here, aren’t I?” he retorts. Derek just looks at him, and Stiles’ smile fades. He turns his head, looking toward where the sun’s sunk below the barns. “It wasn’t you,” he says.

“What?” Derek asks, caught off guard.

“It wasn’t you,” Stiles repeats. “I didn’t leave because of anything you - or anyone else - did.”

“Then why?” Derek asks quietly.

Stiles is silent for a long moment, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. His heartbeat’s picking up; he’s nervous, scared. Derek wants to move closer, comfort him somehow, but he’s worried about getting too close and making Stiles feel trapped. He stays where he is, and after a long pause, Stiles says, “I thought things would be better after high school, but things just got worse. It’s that town, it - it won’t let me go.”

“Beacon Hills?” Derek says, confused. Life wasn’t great five years ago, sure, but the place has settled down since then.

“You don’t feel it,” Stiles says, still not looking at him. “Every day, it’s like a big fucking hand on my chest, pushing me down. I can’t feel - I can barely breathe. After I dropped out and came back - my nightmares started getting worse, and I - ” He closes his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. “It felt like I was dying. Every day.”

Derek stares at him in horror, his heart sinking into his stomach. He should have known. He should have _asked -_ “For a _year_?” he hisses. Stiles nods, his eyes slipping to Derek and then away again. “Why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

“Because I didn’t want you looking at me the way you are now,” Stiles says, and Derek shuts his mouth. Stiles sighs, running his hand through his hair. “This isn’t your fault,” he says quietly. “I mean, if anything, you were the one thing keeping me afloat. I just - ” He sighs again and droops, pressing his face to his knees. His voice is muffled when he says, “It got to the point where I just - I wanted to _rest_ , and I thought, maybe if I was dead - “ He stops. Derek stares at him, at the defeated slump of his shoulders and his long, long fingers curled around his ankles, and he doesn’t know what to do. It hurts deeply, to know that Stiles got to that point, that Derek didn’t even know.

Stiles lifts his head to look at Derek, his cheeks flushed. “That’s not me,” he says. “I know it’s not me. When I had that thought - I knew I had to get out of there, and I panicked. I bailed. I was halfway across the country before I started to get my head straight. I should have told you; I owed you that much.”

“Stop,” Derek says, and he finally moves, closing the space between them. He sinks down onto the steps next to Stiles. “You don’t need to apologize for how you were feeling.”

“Maybe,” Stiles says. “But I do need to apologize for making you worry. I _am_ sorry. I thought about you every single day. I wanted to call you but,” he shrugs, mouth quirking unhappily. “I was ashamed. I thought you’d be furious.”

“I was,” Derek says softly, and Stiles looks at his hands. Derek sighs and puts his hand on Stiles’ back. “For a while. Mostly I was worried. Scott too - and your dad.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his face, looking tired. “Dad knew,” he says, and at Derek’s startled face he explains, “I called him from a payphone a couple days after I left, because I knew if I didn’t, he’d send my photo to every police agency in the country. I made him promise he wouldn’t tell. He didn’t want to, but I made him. I didn’t want you guys trying to bring me back.”

“Why?” Derek asks. He’s trying to keep himself calm, fair - but that admission hurts.

“Because the further I got from Beacon Hills, the better I felt,” Stiles says quietly. “That hand on me lifted off and it never came back. I haven’t had a nightmare in three weeks, Derek. I’m not - not perfect, but I feel better than I have since...well, before we knew each other.”

Derek takes his hand off Stiles’ back, stung. “So you found yourself a new pack,” he says flatly. “That’s it? You’re never coming back?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Stiles says, sitting up straight. “I just - I can’t. Maybe someday, but - I’m not a whole person yet. This place, though, it’s nothing like Beacon Hills, not a stupid cursed tree in sight, and I need that. I _do_ stuff here - stuff with my magic, and stuff with my hands. _Real_ work. You know how good that feels? I’m not leaving and...I know I can’t ask you to stay.”

“Why not?” Derek says, muted, wounded. “If you’d asked me to leave with you, I would have.”

Stiles stares at him, his lips parting in surprise. “You...would have?”

“There’s nothing keeping me in Beacon Hills,” Derek says. “I’ve only stayed because there’s nothing for me anywhere else.”

“What about the pack?” Stiles asks softly.

Derek shrugs. “I’ve always been on the outside,” he says. “Scott would understand.”

Stiles is quiet for a moment, his gaze moving from his hands to Derek and back again. “Is it - is it too late to ask?” he asks.

Derek swallows hard. “To come with you?”

Stiles nods, his mouth tightening nervously. “I know I don’t deserve to ask but - ”

“What would your alpha say?” Derek interrupts.

Stiles’ eyes widen. “I - yes, probably. She likes me.”

“Then yes,” Derek says.

“Yes?” Stiles repeats, his breath hitching. “But - you don’t want to think about it first?”

“I don’t need to,” Derek says. He reaches over and puts his hand over Stiles’, squeezing tight. “I spent two months trying to find you, Stiles. If you think I’m leaving now, you’re wrong.”

“I dunno,” Stiles says, trying to smile and mostly failing. “If you’d shown up just to punch me in the face, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Derek replies. He sighs softly and lets himself lean against Stiles, something tight in his chest loosening when Stiles slouches into him. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Stiles breathes. “Every fucking day. There was this day a couple weeks ago - I was going to the store, but then I started thinking about you, and I kept driving. I thought - I was going to come back, to you - and then my car broke down.”

“The jeep?” Derek asks.

Stiles nods glumly. “It’s toast.”

Derek turns his head, presses his mouth to Stiles’ hair, laughs quietly against his temple. “I told you that thing was junk.”

_“You’re_ junk,” Stiles says moodily, but he twists, slipping his arms around Derek’s torso, tucking his head against Derek’s shoulder. “I’m not the same person I was,” he says, voice muffled.

“So?” Derek wonders, trailing a hand down Stiles’ back; the bumps of his spine aren’t as pronounced as they used to be - he’s gained weight, his cheeks less hollow. He looks alive.

“You don’t know me now,” Stiles says. “What if you don’t like me?”

Derek’s quiet for a moment before he says, “You remember the first time we met?”

Stiles lifts his head. “What, in the woods after Scott was bitten?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I heard you guys coming. You were laughing, picking on him.”

Stiles barks out a too-loud laugh. “Do _not_ tell me you had a crush on me back then.”

“No,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “But you were a different person then, too, weren’t you?”

Stiles’ smile fades. “Yeah, I guess,” he says. He draws back a little, his eyebrows furrowing. “What are you saying?”

“I didn’t hate you then,” Derek tells him. “I didn’t hate you before you left. I’m not going to hate you now.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, a little nervous, “but there’s a big difference between not hating and - love.”

“I’m willing to take the chance,” Derek says.

Stiles stares at him, his lips parting slowly. “I’ve only got a twin bed,” he says eventually. “We’re going to be a little cramped for a while.”

“I don’t care,” Derek says, drawing him back in. “We’ve got some distance to make up for.”


	100. Chapter 100

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **'bout time I updated this. Here are a few ficlets I did in a prompt fill series where the challenge was to keep the ficlets between 500-1000 words. First prompt: "Hi, for the prompt ideas could you do Sterek and "You can't keep kissing strangers and pretending that it's him!!""**  
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek/OC, off screen Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** Teen
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, college fic, break up then make up

Someone knocks on the stall door. Stiles isn’t paying much attention to his surroundings; most of his focus is on the mouth on his neck and the hand down his pants - but he sighs and says, “It’s occupied.”  


The knock comes again, more forcefully. _“Stiles,”_ Scott’s voice hisses.

The guy Stiles is sharing the stall with lifts his head, eyebrows rising. “That your boyfriend?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No.” He raises his voice so Scott knows it’s directed at him. “If you’re leaving, go ahead. I’ll be home later.” The guy grins at him; Stiles grins back.

 _“Stiles,”_ Scott says again, exasperated. He rattles at the stall door. “Come on!”

Stiles heaves an irritated sigh. “One sec,” he tells the guy, and crowds him back so he can unlock the door, pulling it open enough so that he can glare out at Scott. “Will you please _leave?”_

“No,” Scott says. “Come on, man, this isn’t good for you. You know that.”

“No,” Stiles says icily, “I don’t. I’m having fun, Scott, I - ”

“You can’t keep doing this,” Scott says, his face creasing with worry. “You can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that it’s him!”

Stiles’ mouth snaps shut, heat flooding his cheeks. 

“Sorry,” Scott says softly. “I shouldn’t have - sorry.”

Stiles looks down at the dirty floor of the bar bathroom, his jaw tightening. He turns and looks at the guy he’d been hooking up with - dark hair, strong jaw - and the guy gets it without Stiles needing to say anything; he slips out of the stall past Stiles, leaving the bathroom without another word.  


“Sorry,” Scott says again. “I’m just - I’m worried about you, man. You keep staying out, going home with people you never see again - “

Stiles snorts, unamused. “Are you slutshaming me right now?”

“No,” Scott says. “Obviously you can sleep with whoever you want, but it should be because you want to, not because you’re hurting. That’s not good for you, dude. That’s not how you’re going to heal.”

Stiles clenches his jaw, his throat aching. “What am I supposed to do?” he asks bitterly. _”He’s_ the one who broke up with _me.”_

“I know,” Scott says sympathetically, coaxing him out of the stall. “Why don’t we go home, huh? You’re drunk.”

Stiles nods miserably, allowing Scott to pull him out of the bathroom, leading the way out of the bar. It’s cold outside, feels like a slap to the face, and Stiles shivers. They walk home in silence, the cold and the movement sobering him a little. He thinks a lot, his jaw tight, and when they reach the apartment building, Stiles stops on the front porch, earning himself a confused look from Scott.

“You coming inside?”

“You go ahead,” Stiles says. “I’ll be in in a sec.”

Scott frowns at him. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Relax,” Stiles says soothingly. “When have I ever done anything stupid?”

Scott laughs, but he still looks worried.

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles says. “Go on.”

Scott gives him one last look, but then he heads inside, gently closing the front door behind him. Stiles exhales slowly and sits down on the steps, pulling his phone from his pocket. He fiddles with it for a while, chewing at his lip before he unlocks the screen. Stiles breathes in, flipping through his contacts until he finds the one he’s looking for, and hits the call button.

The phone rings. Rings. Rings. It stops ringing and then there’s silence, silence that stretches on for so long that Stiles thinks maybe the call’s been declined, and just when he’s thinking about pulling the phone away from his ear to check, Derek says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Stiles says automatically, almost whispering. He hunches forward, elbows on his knees, heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t know what to say; he didn’t really have a plan. 

Silence stretches between them, and then Derek sighs. “You called _me,”_ he says pointedly.

“I know,” Stiles says. He swallows. “I - miss you.”

Derek sighs again. “I’m hanging up. Goodbye, Stiles - “

“Wait,” Stiles says desperately. “Please. I just - I don’t understand. I thought we were _good_ , I - Derek. Was it me? Did I do something?” He waits, holding his breath.

Derek’s quiet for a while before he says, “No, it wasn’t you. You were perfect, Stiles. You _are_ \- “ Stiles can hear him breathe in and then out. “You deserve better than me.”

“That’s not true,” Stiles argues. “I’m not a good person. I hog the bed and I’m mean in the mornings and I steal all of Scott’s bananas before he can eat them and - “ He drops his voice to a whisper “ - sometimes when we get the neighbor’s mail by mistake, I open their letters.”

Derek huffs out a laugh, pained. “Stiles - ”

“I know none of that makes me sound all that attractive,” Stiles presses on, “but that’s my point; I’m flawed. You’re flawed. It doesn’t matter to me.” He pauses, listening, but Derek’s quiet. After a moment, Stiles softly says, “I know you think you don’t deserve good things, but that’s selfish. You think you’re protecting me, but what about what _I_ want?”

 _“That’s_ selfish,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles half smiles. Derek hesitates before continuing, even softer: “I got scared, with the distance - that you’d forget about me. Find someone better.”

Stiles sighs, thinking about the bevy of dark haired, stubbly-chinned men he’s slept with in the two months since he and Derek broke up and he and Scott moved back down south for school. Most of them were hot, sure, but none of them could hold a candle to his bad-tempered, soft-hearted werewolf. “I can say, without a doubt, that that’s not going to happen.”

Derek falls silent again. Stiles waits for him to argue or hang up, but he doesn’t do either. Hope begins to bloom in his chest. “The distance doesn’t need to be a problem,” he says. “It’s only four hours. I can come home on long weekends, and you could come down whenever you want - Scott won’t mind.” He pauses again, but still, Derek’s quiet. Stiles chews on his lip and then says, all in a rush, “Can we? Can we try again?”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, and Stiles’ heart sinks. “I never should have - this is my fault. I…miss you.”

The hope comes creeping back in. “Is that a yes?” Stiles breathes.

“Yes,” Derek says softly. “If you’ll have me back - yes.”

Stiles closes his eyes, his shoulders relaxing. “You idiot,” he says. “Of course I will.”


	101. Chapter 101

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **'bout time I updated this. Here are a few ficlets I did in a prompt fill series where the challenge was to keep the ficlets between 500-1000 words. Second prompt: "Stiles' dad plays matchmaker between his 'never goes out to meet anyone' son and his polite but awfully quiet new deputy"**  
> 
> **Pairing:** pre-slash Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Sheriff's POV, matchmaking

Stiles has been living with John since graduating from college, and he keeps saying he’ll move out as soon as he finds a job, but in all honesty, John doesn’t mind him being there. Likes it, really; the house was too quiet those four years Stiles was at school, and they’ve always gotten along well, but they get along even better now that Stiles has grown up some. But John can’t help noticing that Stiles seems a little, well, _lonely_. He’s got his friends, sure, and he goes out every once in awhile, but he’s always home at night, ready to share a late pizza or watch a movie when John comes homes from a late shift.

Stiles is twenty-three, and while John didn’t expect him to be married yet, he thought Stiles might have met someone by now. He tries to find out through years of carefully honed interrogation skills if Stiles is seeing anyone, but Stiles shrugs ambivalently and doesn’t really answer. _All right_ , John thinks to himself. He won’t go out of his way, but if he finds someone he thinks Stiles might like, well, he might nudge them in Stiles’ direction, and it’ll be up to them if they want to make something of it. 

There’s a new deputy at the station. John makes an effort to get along with all of his employees, but he likes Derek in particular; he’s unfailingly polite and even-tempered when dealing with the public, smart, quick on his feet. It doesn’t occur to John that he and Stiles might make a good match because he also tries to keep his professional and personal life separate, and his son and one of his deputies dating could end in disaster. He doesn’t even _think_ of the possibility until one Friday night when the shift’s changing over and the day crew’s packing up to leave. He’s standing in his office doorway, chatting with everyone while they clear out, and as Derek walks by, slinging a duffle bag over his shoulder, John says, “Any big plans for the evening, Hale?”

“No sir,” Derek replies. “Just the gym and then home.”

John thinks: _right_. His new deputy keeps to himself and doesn’t share much about his life, but from the little he’s been able to learn, John knows Derek lives by himself, no family nearby. He does not, as far as John is aware, have any hobbies that get him out of the house or in communication with other people. John thinks about Stiles and the way he stays holed up in the house, and the far-off look he gets sometimes when he thinks he’s alone - a little sad, a little lonely. It’s the same look John’s seen on Derek’s face when he’s at his desk and finished his paperwork, head turned to stare out the window. John thinks: _hm_. 

“How would you like to have dinner at my house?” John asks, before he really thinks about it. He winces a little, because it sounds like he just asked his own deputy out, and Derek’s looking alarmed. He adds, hoping it sounds more innocent, “My son’s cooking tonight, and that’s a meal you don’t want to miss.”

“Oh,” Derek says. “I - don’t want to intrude on your evening, sir.”

He doesn’t want to go but he’s trying to be polite, John thinks approvingly. “No intrusion at all,” he says, not giving him the out.

Derek covers his dismay well; he musters a resigned smile and says, “Thank you, sheriff.”

John knows he’s only saying yes because he doesn’t want to say no to his boss, and he won’t try to keep him at the house if it’s not going well, but he thinks if he can just get Stiles and Derek into the same room, they might just click. He smiles. “You know my address?”

They drive over in separate cars. John calls Stiles to let him know they’ll have a guest and Stiles, good kid that he is, rolls with it easily. “Want me to pull out some wine?” is all he asks.

John finds he’s a little nervous as he pulls into the driveway, waiting for Derek’s car to stop behind him before he gets out. This could backfire, he thinks, leading Derek up the walkway to the house. Stiles could be pissed at him for trying to interfere with his life, and he didn’t even _think_ about what might happen if they _do_ date and then break up, but he’s already opening the front door and, well, carpe diem, he supposes.

“Stiles?” he calls, kicking off his shoes.

“Kitchen!” Stiles yells back, and John gestures at Derek, who looks like he’s trying not to be nosy, to follow him. 

Stiles is standing at the counter grating cheese, but he looks up when they enter, smiling briefly when he sees John - and then he spots Derek and his smile falters, lips parting. His cheeks go red and John thinks, smug, _hah_. He chances a glance at Derek and finds him staring back at Stiles, face slack in an identical look of surprise. Then Derek smiles, cautiously, like he’s seen the sun, and John’s never seen him look like _that_ before, and he thinks, triumphant, _hah_. 

He’ll give it half an hour, he thinks, and then he’ll invent a crisis at the station - nothing too serious, of course, so that Derek’s not needed - that requires him to duck out for a couple minutes, maybe an hour. Maybe actually go to the station, do some paperwork, cruise by the house and see if Derek’s car’s still there. If it is, no worries; he’s got plenty of time to waste for the people that mean the most to him.

(I like to think this ends with the sheriff coming back late in the evening, but he gives Stiles a courtesy heads up text, and when he comes into the house they’re both playing it innocent on the couch, but Stiles’ face is flushed and his hair’s a little wild, and Derek’s got what’s probably going to be a hickey on his neck, and the sheriff just smiles, utterly pleased with himself.)


	102. Chapter 102

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **'bout time I updated this. Here are a few ficlets I did in a prompt fill series where the challenge was to keep the ficlets between 500-1000 words. Second prompt: "more Sterek mpreg and angst, but with a happy ending"**  
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** Teen
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, established relationship, mpreg, abo
> 
> **WARNING:** Brief mention of miscarriage, infertility issues

_Finally leaving,_ Derek texts Stiles, trying to pull on his coat at the same time. _I’m sorry I’m late._

 _Don’t worry about it,_ Stiles replies, but Derek still winces. Of all the days his meetings run over, of _course_ it’s their anniversary. He grabs his work bag from the floor by his desk and flies out of the office, strategically ducking around the stragglers from the meeting who don’t have places to be and want to chat. 

He tries not to be nervous as he drives home. He didn’t forget it’s their anniversary; he stopped this morning and got a really nice bottle of wine for them to share. It’s not him. It’s Stiles - he’s been distracted lately, lost in his own thoughts. He’s been secretive with his phone, and when Derek borrowed his computer, the browsing history had been wiped clean. He really truly believes that Stiles isn’t cheating on him, but he’s worried. Things have been better since Stiles went back to work, but everything’s just… _different_ now, and Derek knows he can’t expect any less, but knowing that doesn’t make things easier.

Stiles is sitting at the kitchen counter when Derek comes in, red pen out as he grades papers. Derek watches him as he shrugs off his coat, drinks in the long line of his neck, and he’s suddenly terrified that Stiles is going to leave him. _Why,_ he doesn’t know - but then Stiles lifts his head and smiles faintly, and some of the tightness in Derek’s chest loosens.

“Hi,” he says softly, stepping into the kitchen.

“Hi,” Stiles echoes, dropping his pen and lifting his arms, curling them around Derek’s neck. They kiss slowly, unhurriedly, and when they pull apart, Stiles turns his cheek so Derek can scent him, and the rest of the tightness in his chest goes away. Maybe he was being paranoid, overthinking things; this feels _right._ “Happy anniversary,” Stiles murmurs against Derek’s cheek. “I made dinner. It’s warming in the oven.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, kissing him again. “I’m sorry I was late. I brought wine,” he adds, holding the bottle up like a peace offering. Stiles’ smile falters and Derek feels their little happy moment snap, feels the lash of it across his face like a whip. “It’s optional,” he says, trying to sound light-hearted, and Stiles tries to smile, and they both fail miserably. Derek looks at the bottle and then around at the kitchen and then says, helpless, “Do you want to eat?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, and Derek can hear the forced casualness in his tone. Derek nods. He puts the wine on top of the fridge and pulls the food from the oven. It looks amazing - glazed salmon and rice and roasted vegetables - but his heart feels heavier and heavier. Stiles is quiet behind him, making a show of tidying his papers and setting them aside, but Derek can feel the tension growing between them. He fills a plate for each of them and turns, watches Stiles run a nervous hand through his hair, and says, “If I did something - ”

“I’m pregnant,” Stiles blurts out, and somehow Derek doesn’t drop the plates he’s holding, but it’s close. He stares at Stiles, who hunches in on himself, covering his eyes with his hands, and says it again: “I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant, Derek, I - ”

Derek drops the plates on the counter and steps around to Stiles’ side, stopping just short of him. “How long have you known?” he asks hoarsely.

“Two weeks,” Stiles says, his hands still over his eyes. “I wanted - I thought, if I made it to eight weeks - I didn’t want to jinx it, not again - ”

Derek makes a wounded noise. _“Stiles,”_ he says plaintively, and when Stiles lifts his head, Derek puts his arms around him, pressing his cheek to Stiles’ temple. Stiles exhales a deep, shuddering breath and leans into him wholeheartedly. Now the pieces are falling into place: his distracted behavior, not wanting the wine - he’d probably been doing research online and wiped his history after. Derek sighs softly. “Are you at eight weeks now?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. His fingers curl tightly into Derek’s shirt. “I’m scared, Der. After last time, I - this wasn’t on purpose.”

Derek closes his eyes, trying not to think of the baby they’d lost at six months, of the nursery upstairs still half assembled, the door shut tight - Stiles can barely go near it. They’ve been careful in the year since then, but probably not as careful as they should have been - clearly. He breathes in slowly. “You want to keep it?” he asks quietly. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” Stiles says. “But I want to.” He makes an odd noise somewhere between a laugh and a hiccup. “Is that stupid?”

Derek pulls back so he can see Stiles’ face, takes it in his hands, strokes his thumbs over Stiles’ cheekbones. “No,” he says gently. “It’s not. You know the doctor said that just because it happened once doesn’t mean it’ll happen again - that there’s not always a reason.”

“I know,” Stiles says again. He exhales forcefully and curls his fingers around Derek’s wrists. “I know I’ve been acting weird, and I’m sorry.”

“You were worried,” Derek says. “I get it - don’t apologize.” He leans forward, pressing his forehead to Stiles’. “You can do this.”

“You’ll do it with me,” Stiles breathes, “right?”

“Every step of the way,” Derek says, closing his eyes. “I promise.”

(Not enough words for a conclusion but U KNO ME, NO SAD ENDINGS HERE; they have a happy healthy baby OKAY???)


	103. Chapter 103

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **a while ago, blacktofade and i basically ruined ourselves by thinking up the most angsty shit we could, which was mpreg + amnesia, soooo here’s that for y’all. (also: i ain’t no doctor, CLEARLY)**  
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** Teen
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, established relationship, mpreg, abo, amnesia, ANGST
> 
> **WARNING:** Several very brief allusions to a past physical assault

> _You swept all the red from my cheeks_  
>  _I didn't hear you come back inside_  
>  _I light up the gas in the den_  
>  _And stand there in the thin winter light_  
>  _But, oh god, that curve in your spine_  
>  _A question mark, a doctor's sigh_  
>  _Was framed by the windowsill_  
>  _You saw something I did not in the night [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ml1oJb-uswo)]_

Stiles stands in the middle of the basement with his hands on his hips, frowning around vaguely. What’d he come down here for, again? God, he’d lose his head if it wasn’t attached to his shoulders. The place is a mess, a jumble of boxes at his feet. Stiles frowns as he bends to pick one of the boxes up, not sure where the sports equipment it holds came from; Stiles certainly never played baseball. It smells faintly of alpha and he shudders a little as he shoves the box back onto the shelves; it must have come with the house when he bought it - he remembers the shed out back being full of crap too; it’d taken him, his dad, and Scott a full weekend to clear it all out and take everything to the dump. 

“Oh, no,” Stiles sighs when he picks up another box; his phone’s underneath it, the screen smashed. _“Fuck,”_ he adds, with great emphasis, at the way his head throbs when he bends over to pick it up. That _hurts._ Stiles straightens with another sigh and examines his phone; the screen still lights up, but it’s mostly broken squares of color - useless. Like he can spare another couple hundred dollars for a new phone right now. He - Stiles tilts his head up, squinting thoughtfully at the ceiling. He’s got the feeling he’s forgetting something.

Across the basement, the washing machine plays its cheerful tune noting the current load’s done and Stiles shrugs, abandoning the mess by the shelves so he can go shove clothes into the dryer. After, he heads back upstairs, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. His head’s starting to ache, growing worse by the minute, and he knows he’s got a list of things that need to be done - there’s _always_ something that needs to be done - but it can wait. He goes up to the second floor instead, stops by the bathroom to down a couple aspirin, and then heads for his bedroom, his vision blurring. Stiles can’t remember the last time he got a migraine - fuck, he was probably in high school - but he remembers that it _sucks._

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he murmurs, closing the blinds to shut out the light of the setting sun. He has to move slowly; if he moves too suddenly, pain jolts through his head and down his spine, and when he pulls off his pants the way he bends his head makes him see stars, but then at least he can crawl into bed and pull the covers over his eyes. On his nightstand, his phone buzzes, but since the screen’s broken Stiles doesn’t bothering looking. He sighs instead. It feels good to lay down in the dark; he’s getting sleepy already, which is fine with him - if he falls asleep, it’s all the more likely his migraine will be gone when he wakes up. “Fine by me,” Stiles murmurs to himself as he drifts off.

Stiles sleeps through the entire night; when he wakes, the light coming in around the edges of the blinds is bright, the sun high in the sky. He’s still got a faint ache at the base of his neck but it’s easily ignorable, and he pops a couple more aspirin before climbing into the shower. It feels _amazing;_ he croons a little, stretching his arms up over his head. He uses the _nice_ shampoo, the one his hair dresser guilted him into buying; it cost $20 for the bottle, but admittedly, it does make his hair super soft. There’s something matted into the hair at the back of his neck; Stiles frowns a little, needing a little extra force to get it out. He’s more concerned by his stomach, though - it’s a little more round than he remembers. “Too much pizza,” Stiles chides himself, poking at it. 

His phone starts buzzing when he’s back in his room. Stiles finishes pulling a shirt over his head and then steps over to it. His display’s still not working, obviously, and it’s probably Scott or his dad, but to his surprise, the touch screen still seems to work; when he slides his thumb across the place where he’d usually answer a call, he can suddenly hear background noise, people talking. Curious now, Stiles lifts the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey,” says a soft male voice, concerned, unfamiliar. “Are you okay? You haven’t been answering any of my texts.”

“My screen’s broken,” Stiles replies without thinking, and only after saying it realizes that this guy’s got the wrong number. “Um - ”

The guy on the other end sighs. “Only you,” he says. “Anyway - I just wanted to tell you that I don’t need a ride from the train station. Isaac brought his car, so he’s going to bring me home. I’m about to - ”

“Look, sorry,” Stiles interrupts, “you’ve got the wrong number.”

“What?” the guy says. “No, St - “

Stiles hangs up and tosses his phone on the bed with a sigh. That was weird, but whatever. His phone starts vibrating again but he ignores it and heads downstairs for breakfast, though he pauses in the doorway to the guest bedroom, frowning. All the furniture’s been pushed to the center of the room, the art taken off the walls. There are several swatches of paint on each wall; Stiles wrinkles his nose at the nearest patch, a hideous sage green. He isn’t sure what he’d been thinking there. Time to go back to Home Depot and try again.

After a leisurely breakfast, Stiles checks his to-do list, which is still sitting on the kitchen counter. _Clean the basement_ is still unchecked, but he decides to ignore it for the time being, opting for _Grocery shopping_ instead, because he can’t find coffee anywhere in the cupboard and he’s dying for a cup.

It’s quiet at the store, and he takes his time, wandering up and down every aisle. He doesn’t remember writing half the stuff on the list from the fridge - and half of that’s stuff he doesn’t even _like;_ he must have been having some seriously weird cravings (which is not out of the ordinary; even at that moment, he’s having a strange yearning for Froot Loops, which he usually hates). 

As he’s putting a box of said Froot Loops into his cart - hey, a craving’s a craving - one of his dad’s deputies catches up to him, beaming cheerily. 

“Hey Stiles,” she says. “I didn’t expect to see you around - I thought your dad said your doctor told you to take things easy.”

Stiles looks at her blankly. “Uh...no?” he says, confused. He hasn’t been to the doctor in like six months. 

“Oh,” she says, looking a little confused herself. “Maybe I misheard him. How are you feeling, anyway?”

“Pretty good,” Stiles says. “I got a migraine last night but, you know, it happens.” He shrugs a little, unconcerned, but the deputy scrunches up her face in sympathy.

“I had migraines all through my second trimester,” she tells him. “I know you’re supposed to avoid caffeine, but drinking a coke was the only thing that helped me.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” Stiles says, not sure what that has to do with him. “Thanks.”

She smiles, happy to help, and follows this up with “You’re what, four months along?” 

Stiles stares at her, confusion and something that feels very much like panic welling in his chest. “Uh,” he says blankly, grasping for words that aren’t _what the fuck_. “Uh - I - I need to get going.”

“Oh, of course!” she says. “Didn’t mean to hold you up.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, trying to keep his voice steady. “I - yeah. See you around.” 

He makes himself finish shopping because he’s there and most of the way through the list already, but his mind’s in overdrive, his hands clamped around the shopping cart’s handle so tightly that his knuckles are white. He’s not pregnant, he tells himself. She has him confused with someone else. He’s not pregnant - he’d _know_ if he was pregnant. He’d _remember._

But - but things are _weird;_ he can’t deny that. There’s the guest bedroom and the paint colors he doesn’t remember selecting, and the stuff on the grocery list he didn’t put there, and the fucking craving for Froot Loops. Stiles stands in line waiting to check out and touches his stomach, his little bump of a stomach, and his hand shakes. He’d remember. If he got pregnant, he’d _remember,_ but he can’t, and he’s terrified. 

Stiles forces himself to keep breathing steadily the whole way home; the last thing he needs is to get into an accident. He brings the groceries into the house, methodically puts them away, and when he’s done, he leans up against the counter and closes his eyes, drawing in one deep breath after another. He’s fine, he tells himself. Everything’s fine. He’ll just, well, there’s still a couple pregnancy tests in the upstairs bathroom, leftovers from that scare he had like a year ago. He can take a test and know he’s not pregnant, and then he’ll start dieting and lose some weight and not worry about this ever again. It’s fine. He’s fine.

Stiles heads upstairs and he’s about three steps from the top when the bathroom door swings open and a barechested man steps out into the hallway, his hair damp, a towel around his waist. Stiles freezes as the man’s head swings in his direction and a smile curves his mouth. “Hey,” the guy says, and Stiles’ skin breaks out into goosebumps because he recognizes that voice; it’s the guy who called him this morning. “Where’ve you been?”

He takes a couple steps in Stiles’ direction and Stiles’ mouth goes dry because he can smell him; this guy’s an alpha and he’s _in Stiles’ fucking house._

“Get out of my house,” Stiles says shakily, managing to find his voice, and the guy’s eyebrows draw together in a frown. “I’m calling the cops,” he adds, remembering too late that his phone’s still laying on the bed, and the guy’s between him and the bedroom - and his screen’s still broken anyway. 

“Stiles, what are you talking about?” the guy asks, walking toward him. 

“S - _stop,”_ Stiles says, his voice going high with panic. The closer the guy gets, the stronger his alpha scent becomes, and the faster Stiles’ heart beats; it feels like it’s ready to burst from his chest, thundering in his ears. He takes a couple steps backwards and almost misses a stair, has to grab at the railing to steady himself.

The guy pauses, his frown deepening, but he puts his hands up placatingly. “Stiles, come on,” he says cajolingly. “It’s _me.”_

“I don’t know who you are!” Stiles spits, and twists on his heels, sprinting down the stairs. The guy calls after him but Stiles doesn’t stop, pausing long enough to rip the house phone off the wall in the kitchen - bless his dad for insisting on a land line - and darting into the downstairs bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him. He can hear the guy coming down the stairs, yelling something, but Stiles dials 911 and puts the phone to his ear, panting. When the operator answers, he goes weak with relief, recognizing her voice: “Diane,” he whispers, as the doorknob rattles behind him. “Diane, it’s Stiles. There’s someone - there’s an alpha in my house. Please - ”

_“Stiles!”_ the guy yells over Diane’s response. “Stiles, stop fucking around!”

“Please,” Stiles begs Diane, whimpering as something hits the door, rattling it in its frame. He slides to the floor, pushing his back against the door, anchoring his feet against the base of the toilet. He tries to breathe, puts his head between his knees and tries to suck in air, but his heart won’t stop juddering around, and his lungs don’t seem to want to inflate. The house has gone quiet, or maybe he can’t hear anything over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. The heavy thud of his heart turns to the thump of fists against flesh, jeering voices, laughter. One of the alphas calls him an omega bitch and stomps on his hand, breaks two of his fingers. His bruises don’t fade for weeks.

“Stiles?” 

Someone’s saying his name - a different voice, gentle. Stiles lifts his head, pulling in air in huge, scared jolts. “Stiles,” the voice says again, a little muffled through the door. “Come on, open the door.” Stiles knows it - that’s his dad. Nearly crying in relief, he scrambles to his feet and hurries to unlock the door, almost falling forward into his dad’s arms. His dad holds onto him tightly, not complaining when Stiles buries his head against his shoulder, his chest heaving. His dad puts his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck and squeezes, steadying him.

“The alpha,” Stiles says weakly, when he doesn’t feel like he’s about to throw up anymore. 

“He’s outside,” his dad says calmly. “He’s not going to hurt you.”

Stiles shudders and pulls out of his dad’s arms, wiping at his wet eyes. “Something’s wrong with me,” he tells his dad, his voice unsteady. “Dad - ”

“Easy,” his dad says, squeezing his arm. “Let me ask you a couple questions, all right? You know what day today is?”

“Sunday,” Stiles says.

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty-three,” Stiles replies, scratching nervously at his arm. 

“Mmhm,” his dad says. “And when’d you buy this house?”

“Last year,” Stiles says. “With the settlement money.” His hands shake; he balls them into fists at his side. “That’s right, right? Dad?”

“Let’s go outside,” his dad says. “Get you some fresh air.”

That’s a non-answer, which makes Stiles even more nervous, but he lets his dad lead him down the hall and out the front door. There are several cruisers parked haphazardly in the driveway, an ambulance down at the curb. Stiles stiffens when he sees the alpha who was in his house standing with several deputies - not handcuffed or in one of the cruisers, but standing freely, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks at Stiles as he passes and his mouth thins.

“Why isn’t he getting arrested?” Stiles asks nervously, sticking close to his dad’s side. “He was - ”

“We’ll go over that in a moment,” his dad says, pushing him toward the ambulance. “I want you to sit.”

Stiles bites anxiously at his lip but does what he’s told, sitting on the back step of the ambulance. The EMT, who he vaguely recognizes, smiles at him and pulls a penlight from his pocket. As he shines the light in Stiles’ eyes, he asks, “Have you fallen or hit your head anytime in the last few days, Stiles?”

“No,” Stiles says.

“Hm,” the EMT says, and puts his penlight away, pulling out a blood pressure monitor instead. As he wraps it around Stiles’ arm, he asks, “Have you had any headaches? Any dizziness or double vision?”

“I had a migraine yesterday,” Stiles says, looking worriedly at his dad. 

The EMT nods and puts on his stethoscope. He reaches toward Stiles’ stomach but Stiles jerks violently backward, his heart hammering in his chest. “Don’t!” he says, panicked. “I’m not - I’m - ” He can’t say it; can’t say _pregnant._ It’s not true, it’s _not_ , but Stiles is terrified the paramedic’s going to hear something and then it’s going to be real and he can’t - he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Looking past the EMT, he can see the alpha standing halfway down the driveway, watching him, his face unreadable. 

Stiles’ dad sees him too; he steps in close, blocking Stiles’ view, and the paramedic says, “I think we should get you to the hospital so they can run some tests; I’m pretty sure you’ve got a concussion.”

“What?” Stiles asks weakly. “But - nothing happened to me.”

His dad sighs. “Stiles,” he says gently. “It’s 2016. You’re twenty-nine years old. That alpha is your husband; you’ve been married two years and you’re four months pregnant with your first kid.”

“What?” Stiles repeats, almost a whisper. “That’s - not true. I - is this a _joke?”_

“This isn’t a joke,” his dad says calmly. “I don’t know what’s happened to you, but you’ve lost some time, son.”

“But I wouldn’t - I wouldn’t marry an alpha,” Stiles says, panicked. “How - “

“Look at your left hand,” his dad tells him. Stiles looks, feeling helpless, and a cold chill runs through his body when he sees the gold band on his ring finger; he hadn’t even _noticed_ it.

“Oh my god,” he says. “Oh my _god.”_

“Let’s get you to the hospital,” his dad says soothingly. “We’ll get this figured out.”

“Okay,” Stiles says helplessly. He feels like he’s about to pass out. The alpha - his _husband? -_ has moved closer; Stiles can see around his dad, and the guy looks intensely worried. “Oh my god,” he mumbles again, mostly to himself. His dad and the paramedic help him to his feet so he can sit on the bed in the back of the ambulance and his dad says he’ll follow in his cruiser. Stiles suspects that his dad’s going to give the alpha a ride to the hospital; as the ambulance pulls away from the house, Stiles can see his dad talking to the guy, a hand on his shoulder. 

The ride to the hospital is mostly quiet; it’s not an emergency, so there aren’t any sirens, and they keep to the speed limit. The paramedic monitors his heart rate, and Stiles finally lets him put the stethoscope to his stomach, watching him anxiously. 

“Does it sound okay?” he asks nervously, afraid of the answer; if he _is_ pregnant, though, he wants a healthy baby.

“The heartbeat’s fast,” the paramedic tells him. “Sounds good. They’ll probably do an ultrasound to make sure it’s looking okay.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says. He looks up at the ceiling and draws in a deep breath. He’s...pregnant. “Good.” He’s _pregnant. Fuck._

At the hospital, he gets examined by a nurse, who finds a cut on the back of his head. It hurts when she touches it; he flinches, and she asks, “Do you remember how you got this?”

“No,” Stiles says, and then after a moment of thought he remembers: “There was something in my hair in the shower this morning. Maybe - blood?”

“Could have been,” the nurse says, making a note on her clipboard. “Why don’t you get that gown on and we’ll get you in for an MRI.”

The MRI is loud and Stiles doesn’t particularly enjoy it, nor does he feel all that great afterward, when the doctor goes through the results with him - and his dad, who’s reappeared (the alpha doesn’t, but Stiles is pretty sure he’s around _somewhere)_ \- and notes the abnormal brain activity on the scan. “Based on this and your other symptoms,” the doctor tells him, tapping his pen against the screen, “I’m going to conclude that you experienced _some_ kind of head trauma and now have a concussion and memory loss. The memory loss is more severe than we usually see, but it’s not unheard of.”

“But how long is it going to last?” Stiles asks. “It’s not permanent, right?”

“No, no,” the doctor tells him. “It generally doesn’t last more than twenty-four hours, but considering the severity of your case, it could be a week or longer.”

“Great,” Stiles says quietly, disheartened. He changes back into his clothes, but he can’t leave yet; instead, he gets shuffled down to the prenatal ward for an ultrasound. 

His dad goes with him, but as they walk, he asks, “Do you mind if Derek is in the room for this?” Stiles gives him a puzzled look and he clarifies: “Your husband.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, nervous again. “That’s his name? Derek?” His dad nods and Stiles anxiously wrings at the hem of his shirt. “I - I don’t know.”

“I know you’re scared,” his dad says gently, “but take moment to think about this feels for him. He came home and discovered that the person he loves the most doesn’t know who he is - is _terrified_ of him. The last thing he wants to do is hurt you, Stiles. He just wants to know that you - and your baby - are okay.”

“I guess,” Stiles says. Put that way, he feels a little guilty. “I just don’t understand - he’s an alpha, Dad. How could I marry him?”

“A lot can change in six years, Stiles,” his dad says. _“You_ changed, in a very good way.”

Stiles gnaws at his bottom lip. “You like him?”

“I like him,” his dad nods. “He’s a good man. You bring out the best in each other.”

“I never thought I was going to get married,” Stiles says, a little awed.

His dad smiles. “That’s not the first time you’ve said that to me.”

Stiles thinks about this as they take an elevator down a few floors, then decides, “Okay. He can be there.”

His dad smiles again, gives him a side-hug. “He’ll appreciate it.”

Stiles nods, trying to contain his anxiety. He doesn’t know how to handle this - not just that he’s married, but he’s married to an alpha, and not only that, but he’s having a _baby_. A baby with an _alpha._ He’s lost _six years_ of his life, and he doesn’t even know what happened to him to cause it. What if it happens again? 

The alpha - his husband - _Derek -_ is sitting in one of the waiting rooms, his head bowed, but he looks up sharply when they came through, his gaze snapping straight to Stiles. Stiles looks at him and then away quickly, his heart rate picking up. Maybe his dad gestures at Derek or something, because he rises from his seat and follows them down the hall, but he keeps his distance.

In a small room with low lighting, Stiles gets up on a bed and lays back so the technician can smear gel on his stomach. He’s nervous about this - and nervous about Derek being there; he’s standing over by the doorway, eyes constantly shifting between Stiles and the ultrasound screen, even though it’s not on yet. Stiles feels weirdly conflicted; he feels _bad_ , because Derek looks intensely worried - but he can _smell_ Derek’s alpha scent, trapped in the small room with them, and it makes his skin crawl. It helps that his dad seems to trust Derek - he’s never liked _any_ of the people Stiles has dated, so that’s saying something - but he can’t help the way Derek’s scent elicits such a physical reaction from him. 

Stiles tenses when the tech puts the wand on his stomach, looking anxiously at the screen. He’s not really ready for the image when it appears - he hadn’t even _known_ he was pregnant when he woke up this morning, and he knows that the Stiles whose memories he’s forgotten has probably already experienced this, but when he sees the baby - _his_ baby - on the screen, his eyes burn. “Oh,” he breathes. “Fuck.”

The technician smiles at him. “Healthy heartbeat,” she says. “Nice and fast - that’s good.”

“Is it?” Stiles says weakly. “Good.” He looks up at his dad for reassurance, but he’s watching the screen, a soft smile on his face. He’s psyched, Stiles realizes; he probably never thought he’d get a grandkid. 2016 Stiles is doing pretty well for himself, Stiles thinks; he’s got a husband and a baby on the way, a good life. 

Stiles looks across the room at Derek; he’s watching the screen too, arms crossed tightly over his chest, the set of his mouth thin and miserable. Stiles knows his dad has a point - that what’s happened to him is just as hard on Derek - or maybe harder, because while Derek’s a stranger to him, he know that there’s probably a mate bond between them that only intensified when he got pregnant, and even though Stiles can’t feel it, Derek probably feels it acutely, and Stiles feels _bad._ He can be an asshole sometimes, sure, but not to people he cares about, and if at some point in the last few years, he was able to come to trust Derek, an _alpha,_ enough to marry and have a baby with him, he’s got to care about him more deeply than maybe anyone else in his life. He might make Stiles nervous right now, but maybe he’s being selfish, too. 

Stiles licks his lips nervously and quietly says, “Derek?” The name feels unfamiliar on his tongue, but Derek looks at him sharply, his brow furrowing. Stiles can’t find the courage to say “Come over here,” so he pats the bed and hopes Derek understands. It takes a moment, Derek frowning at him, and then his face softens. He takes a step away from the wall then pauses, cautious, and Stiles nods. Something like relief passes over Derek’s face and he crosses the room, taking a spot next to Stiles’ dad. It’s harder with him so close; Stiles has to breath through his mouth to keep himself calm, but Derek’s respectful; he touches Stiles’ ankle for a split second, as if to reassure himself that Stiles is real, and then he drops his hands to his side, his gaze returning to the ultrasound monitor. 

“Everything’s looking good,” the technician tells them. “I’m just going to have the doctor review this and if she agrees, you should be all set to leave.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, Derek quietly echoing him. The tech nods and leaves the room, and for a few moments they’re all quiet. Stiles pulls his shirt back down over his stomach and fiddles with his wedding ring; he’s not sure how he missed it before, unless his body’s just so used to it being there that it’s more a part of him than an accessory. 

His dad looks like he’s about to say something when his phone begins to ring. “It’s the station,” he says, glancing at the screen. “I’ll be right back.”

Stiles and Derek both watch him leave the room, Derek expressionlessly, Stiles nervously. He’s not sure what to do without his dad there as a buffer, his heart rate picking up anxiously.

“Do you want me to leave?” Derek asks quietly. His voice is so soft it surprises Stiles; with Derek’s fierce (but admittedly handsome) looks, he’d expected something deeper, more aggressive. 

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, though he’s not really sure it is - but he wants to be fair. 

Derek watches him, his gaze intense and sad. “I’m sorry for scaring you,” he says.

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles says guiltily. “I’m sorry for reacting so poorly. It’s just - ” He stops himself, embarrassed and ashamed, but Derek’s face softens. 

“You don’t need to apologize,” he tells Stiles. “I know about the assault.”

“Of course you do,” Stiles mutters, feeling even worse. 

“I know you’re afraid of me,” Derek says, and hurt flashes across his face, so strong it makes Stiles’ stomach twist. “I’ll stay away from you until this is resolved.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, startled. “You - ”

He’s cut off by the reappearance of his dad, who jerks the door to the room open and asks, “Were you doing something in the basement?”

Stiles stares at him blankly for a moment. “Uh,” he says, vaguely remembering being down there. “I - think so?”

His father sighs. “I had some deputies look over the house, try to figure out what happened. They found a bit of blood on the floor in the basement and a to-do list in the kitchen that said ‘clean basement.’”

“...ah,” Stiles says slowly. “That’s...probably it.”

Next to him, Derek groans softly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I _told_ you to let me take care of the basement,” he sighs. “Those shelves aren’t stable.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says quietly. 

Derek sighs again, while his dad looks exasperated. Stiles feels even worse, knowing he did this to himself. At that moment, the doctor appears, giving them all a reassuring smile. 

“Hello,” she says warmly. “This is quite the unusual situation, but fortunately, the baby’s health has been unaffected - though I’d take care to avoid any future stressors.”

“He’s already supposed to be on bed rest,” Derek says grimly, and Stiles bites his tongue because _oh,_ he _really_ should not have been in the basement. 

“Then I would continue with that, if it’s what your doctor has prescribed,” the doctor tells them. 

“No more cleaning,” Stiles’ dad says meaningfully. Stiles cringes.

“I’d schedule a checkup with your regular doctor this week, but otherwise, I don’t see any need to be concerned,” the doctor says. “You are all clear to leave.”

“Um,” Stiles says, and she pauses. “What about our bond?”

Her brow furrows. “Bond?”

“Yeah, um.” Stiles gestures between himself and Derek. “I, um, can’t feel it.” He deliberately doesn’t look at Derek, but he can still see the way Derek’s body stiffens.

“Well,” the doctor says, looking quickly at Derek. She seems a little stumped. “The nature of your head injury may have jumbled up some of your instincts. I suppose it’s possible you won’t feel anything until your memories return - but head trauma isn’t my area, so I can’t say with certainty.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Okay. Thanks.”

She gives them a brief smile and then leaves the room, the door closing gently behind her. There’s a slightly awkward silence; Stiles still can’t bring himself to look at Derek, and his dad rubs his hands over his face wearily. 

“Well,” his dad says at length. “I guess maybe you should stay with me for a while.”

“No,” Derek says, before Stiles can even open his mouth to respond. “You should stay at the house. Your doctor said the nesting was important - even if you don’t feel the connection, you should stay. I’ll find somewhere else to go.”

“Oh,” Stiles says uncomfortably. “Well - I mean, that’s not fair. To you.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says quietly. “It’s only temporary.”

“What if it’s not?” Stiles asks, making himself look at Derek. Derek looks back at him, his face tired and unhappy. “I just mean - it’s your house too, right? You should stay.”

Derek’s surprised by this, his eyebrows rising. “You’d be okay with that? Even though I’m an alpha?”

“Look, I know you’re not a bad guy,” Stiles says, a little exasperated. “You just scared me this morning.”

“You sure you’re okay with that?” his dad asks skeptically. “Derek can stay with me.”

_“Yes,”_ Stiles says irritably. “This is my fault; you don’t need to make sacrifices because of me.” He looks at Derek again and firmly says, “You’re my husband.” _Even if you’re a stranger,_ he thinks. He just feels - _bad_ , and Derek’s not a bad guy; Stiles’ dad likes him, and he’s been nothing but respectful. Even if he is an alpha - that’s okay. Stiles knows plenty of alphas; Scott’s an alpha and he’s Stiles’ best friend. He knows, rationally, that being an alpha doesn’t automatically make someone a bad person, and vice versa. It’s fine; he’ll be fine. 

“Well,” Stiles’ dad says doubtfully, “let me give you a ride home, then.”

Stiles sits up front, quiet. Derek sits in the back of the cruiser, behind the dirty plexiglass barrier, also quiet. Stiles keeps trying to think about everything that’s happened - about the life he’s apparently living, and the life growing inside him - and it’s like he keeps bumping up against a wall, his mind blank. It’s just too much to take in all at once, he decides. He doesn’t need to process it right now anyway; they’re pulling up in front of his house, and there’s his car in the driveway, older but familiar. 

His dad gets out to let Derek out of the back, but he doesn’t make any move to come up to the house with them. “You let me know if you need anything,” he says, and Stiles isn’t sure whether he’s talking to Derek or him, but they both nod. “I want updates,” his dad adds, voice ominous, and then he gets into the car and drives off.

It’s gotten dark out. Stiles isn’t sure what time it is, or what time it was when he freaked that morning, but somehow he’s lost most of the day and maybe that’s for the best. He follows Derek up the walk to the house and notices things now that he didn’t that morning - little things that are different, like the porch is made of new wood, and the doormat isn’t the plain black he remembers, but festive bright stripes of color. Someone cares about this place; they’re not just living in it like he was. It’s him, he thinks, throat tightening. It’s _them._

Inside, Derek goes straight into the kitchen, and Stiles waffles in the entryway for a moment, lost in his own house. He goes to the kitchen doorway and watches Derek fill up a glass of water, and he waits for Derek to drink before he asks, “How long have we known each other?”

Derek closes his eyes and Stiles feels guilty again; he’s bothering him. “Five years,” Derek says, eyes still closed. 

“Oh,” Stiles says. So he’ll meet Derek a year from now. Or would, if he was actually in the past, which he’s not. “Do we - “ He sees the way Derek’s mouth goes pinched, and he gives up for now. “Nevermind. I’m going to...go lay down, I think.”

Derek looks at him sharply. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Stiles says gently, placatingly. “Just tired.”

Derek looks down at his glass. Stiles backs out of the kitchen and heads upstairs, trying to walk silently, like he’s in a museum. He feels like a stranger in someone else’s house; once he’s up in the bedroom, he’s not sure how he missed the signs that he shares the space with another person - there’s a _second dresser,_ for one, and a fucking _framed photo of their wedding day_ on the wall above it. 

Stiles stares at it and his throat burns again; he hasn’t felt as happy as he looks in the photo in a long, long time. It makes him upset in a way that’s difficult to describe; he should be happy for himself and the shit he’s apparently achieved, and he _is,_ but this is terrifying. Some things are the same, like the crack in the plaster above the door frame, and some things are so so different, and he can’t get away from them. There’s a book on pregnancy on his nightstand, and the nightstand on the other side of the bed is cluttered with Derek’s things; a pair of cufflinks and a pile of historical nonfiction books, and a bag of dark chocolate kisses. Stiles tries to imagine them in bed together, laughing, fucking, but his heart does something weird and panicky and he moves instead, jerkily stripping out of his clothes until he’s only in his boxers.

Stiles climbs into bed and even with his eyes closed he can’t escape this other life; the bed smells like _them._ Not Stiles on one side, Derek on the other, but _StilesandDerek_ meshed together, and Stiles is terrified because it does nothing for him. It’s not what he needs it to be. It doesn’t feel like home.

-

Stiles sleeps through the night without waking. It was early when he went to bed, and it’s early when he rises now, but Derek’s already awake. Stiles hesitates on the stairs when he hears him moving around in the kitchen, flashing back to the day before, but he’s stern with himself and pushes downward.

Derek’s standing at the stove making breakfast, but he turns to look at Stiles, carefully looking him up and down, assessing him. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Fine,” Stiles says, which he really isn’t, but there’s no good word to sum up “I lost six years of memories, including the fact that I’m married and pregnant and also I slept weird because I’m apparently into super soft pillows now,” so he just repeats, “Fine.”

Derek watches him a moment longer before turning back to the stove, saying, “I made breakfast. Sit.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, startled, but he obediently shuffles over to the breakfast nook and takes a seat. He watches Derek put food on a plate and guiltily wonders where he slept last night. On the couch? There’s another spare bedroom, but Stiles never put much effort into the room - though of course that could have changed in the last six years.

Stiles doesn’t flinch when Derek puts a plate down in front of him, though a faint shudder runs up his spine at the gust of alpha scent Derek’s proximity brings him. “Thanks,” he manages to say. 

Derek nods and retreats across the kitchen, piling dishes in the sink. Stiles looks at the plate in front of him - a sausage and spinach omelette - and then looks at Derek. “You’re not eating?”

“I already ate,” Derek says, not turning away from the sink.

“Oh,” Stiles says again, guiltier than ever. He’s not all that hungry, his stomach a little upset, but he doesn’t want to waste Derek’s work so he eats it all, thoughts going distant as he chews. He nearly jumps out of his skin when Derek reappears next to him, gently setting down a small bottle in front of him.

“Sorry,” Derek says, a bitter twist to his mouth. 

“It’s - it’s okay,” Stiles says over the thundering of his heart. “What’s this?”

“Your prenatal vitamins,” Derek says quietly. “Take two.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Thank you.”

Derek nods again, his jaw tight, and turns on his heel. He leaves the kitchen, and a moment later, Stiles hears him go down the basement steps. Cleaning up the mess Stiles made the day before yesterday, probably, Stiles thinks, feeling even worse than before. He finishes the last of his omelette, takes two vitamins, and washes his plate before wandering upstairs, a little at a loss for what to do. He showers, because he still smells faintly like the hospital, and then he takes the book about pregnancy off his nightstand and brings it downstairs, curling into the big, unfamiliar armchair in the living room. It feels like a good place to be; it doesn’t smell like him, exactly, but it’s comforting. Maybe Derek had a point about what he’d said the doctor had said about nesting being good for Stiles.

He reads most of the day. He’s not sure how much of the book he’d read before he lost his memory, but everything it in is new to Stiles, and he takes it in avidly. Derek spends a lot of time in the basement - Stiles can hear him thumping around at the periphery of his hearing - but he comes up a couple of times; once he just stops in the living room doorway, watching Stiles, and Stiles doesn’t notice him until he looks up and startles seeing him there. Another time, later in the day, he goes upstairs and takes a shower, and when he comes back Stiles has to try not to tense, his alpha scent refreshed and strong. 

They don’t really talk. Stiles isn’t sure what to say to him, and Derek walks around the house with this pinched, unhappy look on his face that only grows more miserable as the day - and the days following - go on with no improvement in Stiles’ memory. Derek goes into work for half the day the next day and comes home in the afternoon more tense, frustration wrinkling his brow. 

“Is everything okay?” Stiles asks him, but Derek just shakes his head and disappears into the spare bedroom (which _has_ been transformed into a complete guest room, the walls painted a cool slate gray). 

Stiles has a doctor’s appointment the next day, so Derek drives him there. He lets Derek explain what happened to him to his doctor, and then Stiles answers the doctor’s questions about how he’s been feeling. He’s feeling pretty confident after all the reading he’s been doing, but he’s completely thrown in the middle of his ultrasound, when the doctor turns to them and asks, “Do you want to find out the sex today?”

Stiles freezes, his mouth open. Derek makes an aborted move, like he’s going to grab Stiles’ arm and then thinks better of it. “Um,” Stiles says, looking nervously at Derek, whose jaw’s gone tight again, abject misery on his face. This isn’t something he should take away from them - from the Stiles whose memories he forgot, and Derek, who’s missing him so intently. “No,” Stiles says, still watching Derek. “Maybe next time.”

Stiles bites at his lip the whole drive home, struggling with the urge to reach over and take Derek’s hand. He’s got this weird ache in his chest, a sadness that twists his stomach. Derek’s stone-faced; he won’t even look at Stiles, and when they get back to the house, he makes to head upstairs, but Stiles blurts, “Is there something I can do?”

Derek freezes for a moment, then turns slowly, his brow furrowing. 

“I - I know this is hard on you,” Stiles tells him. “So - can I do anything? To help? I mean, if you just want to talk, or, or, I dunno. Anything?”

Derek stares at him for a long moment, mouth thin, and then he says, “I can’t ask anything of you.”

“Why?” Stiles presses. “Because there’s nothing you need? Or because you think I’ll say no?”

Derek hesitates. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says. 

This makes Stiles pause a second, a little nervous, but he presses on: “Try me.”

Derek’s eyebrows go up and then down, furrowing deeply as he looks at Stiles. Stiles waits for Derek to speak; he can see the indecision on Derek’s face, concern and sadness and uncertainty all mixed in together. After a long, long moment, though, his face softens, goes vulnerable. “I miss your scent,” Derek admits, in a voice barely louder than a whisper. 

“I - you do?” Stiles asks. It’s a stupid question; of course Derek does. It’s a huge part of their bond and Derek hasn’t come near him in days - even before Stiles lost his memories, he’s gathered that Derek was on a weeklong business trip. Derek nods shortly, his jaw clenching. “Oh,” Stiles says, not sure what else to say.

“It’s fine,” Derek says, after a moment of silence. His expression closes off, mouth going hard again. “I’ll deal with it.” 

He turns again to head upstairs and Stiles, panicking a little, says all in a rush, “Do you want to touch me?”

Derek pauses. He turns around much more slowly this time, his eyes flickering up and down Stiles’ body before landing on Stiles’ face, looking intently into his eyes. “You mean that?” he asks quietly. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says a little nervously. “Nothing, um, crazy. But if you want to - you can.”

“Okay,” Derek says slowly. “Right now?”

“Sure,” Stiles says. He’s still wearing his shoes and coat, so he kicks off his shoes and hangs his coat on the rack by the door, then turns to face Derek again, arms slightly spread. He draws in a deep breath. “Go for it.”

“You need to tell me if you’re uncomfortable,” Derek warns, but he steps closer, the grim look on his face softening. He reaches out slowly, eyes fixed on Stiles’ face, and first places his hand flat against Stiles’ stomach. It’s too early for even Stiles to feel the baby move, but that small touch seems to placate Derek, his face softening further, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. Stiles’ heart bangs nervously in his chest, but it’s not _bad_ for all that it’s strange to feel so close and yet so far from Derek, his husband, a stranger. 

Derek’s thumb sweeps over Stiles’ stomach; he looks at Stiles again, eyes half-lidded, and asks, “Can I hug you?”

Stiles draws in another deep breath - earning himself a lungful of Derek’s alpha scent, though it doesn’t seem so bad now - and nods. Derek actually smiles faintly and tugs on Stiles’ belt loops, drawing him into his space. It’s a little nerve wracking when Derek slides his arms around Stiles - gently, cautiously - and pulls him in close enough that their chests touch, close enough he can feel Derek’s heart beating against his. He stands there stiffly for a moment, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides until he gets the courage to raise them, pressing his palms against Derek’s warm back. He feels that weird ache in his chest again, hurts like something is missing and he doesn’t know, maybe it’s instinct, but without really thinking about it he turns his face toward Derek’s throat. His skin breaks into goosebumps at the raw intensity of Derek’s scent, equal parts frightening and thrilling.

Derek sighs softly, his grip tightening on Stiles. It feels like a real hug now and Stiles has to admit it feels kind of nice. He’s been feeling a little lost and lonely, and Derek probably feels the same way - or worse, most likely, since he remembers their marriage and Stiles doesn’t - and it’s a nice hug. Not as good as his dad’s, of course, but nice. 

“Thank you,” Derek eventually murmurs against Stiles’ cheek. “I miss you,” he sighs, and pulls away, gently releasing Stiles. Stiles doesn’t say anything - doesn’t know _what_ to say - and watches Derek head upstairs, his face warm. His shirt smells like Derek now, and he can’t tell whether he wants to jump in the shower and scrub it off his skin...or roll in it. 

Stiles settles for trying to ignore it instead. He cleans the kitchen ferociously, moving everything off the counters so he can scrub them down, then wiping down all the cabinet and appliance surfaces he can reach. Then, because it’s nearly dinnertime anyway, he starts getting dinner ready, not noticing Derek’s leaning against the doorway until he turns to put a pot on the stove. Stiles pauses, feeling unaccountably guilty. “What?”

“I usually do all the cooking,” Derek says.

“Yeah, but this is your favorite,” Stiles argues, then pauses, frowning. How’d he know that?

Derek stares at him, his mouth falling open. “Did - you just remember that?” he asks. 

Stiles stares back at him. “I think I did,” he says, startled, and to his further surprise, Derek smiles - a real, bright smile, not the few faint half-hearted smiles he’s scrounged up over the past few days, and it changes his face completely. Stiles can’t help but grin back. “That’s gotta be a good sign, right?”

They both think so, but another couple of days pass without any other change, and Stiles feels his hopes starting to drop again. Derek returns to work full-time and Stiles hates it; he’s not working because he’s supposed to be taking the pregnancy easy, but being at home alone all day with nothing to do makes him anxious and lonely. It’s not something he ever expected to happen - he lived alone for a few years and was just _fine_ \- and he’s not sure if it’s instinct kicking in or what, but he finds himself impatiently waiting for Derek to come home every day, that empty place in his chest aching. 

Derek’s patient - at least on the surface - but Stiles is not; a week after it all began, he goes back to the hospital and gets more tests done, but nothing’s really changed. Stiles tries to keep calm, but he’s starting to panic as the thought that this change might be permanent begins to set in. The thought terrifies him; it’s not just that his personal world has changed, but the world itself is just different enough from six years ago that he’s always _wrong_ about something; he’s lost six years of technological advances, and news, and politics. Everything’s simultaneously easier and harder and he hates it, _hates_ it - and hates that he hates it. 

Things are easier between him and Derek now - Stiles isn’t afraid of him, and his scent doesn’t make Stiles’ heart hammer in his chest; he’s actually starting to like it - but it doesn’t make them mates. He begins to recognize that that ache in his chest is for Derek, but it’s not _him_ feeling it; it’s this body, this baby that’s making him feel that way. He wants to be near Derek, wants to take comfort from his presence, but he can’t ask for it; there’s no familiarity there, no history between them - but from all the reading he’s been doing, he knows it’s only going to get worse the more time passes, and it hurts. He’s never felt more alone in his life. 

Stiles pauses by the guest bedroom one evening while Derek’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth. It’ll be the nursery, he knows now; the paint samples on the wall were from him and Derek trying to decide on a color. All the furniture’s been pushed into the middle of the room - a twin bed Derek says he’ll probably sell on Craigslist, the dresser Stiles had in his room growing up. There’s a couple boxes too, full of things for the baby they’ve already bought or been gifted, and Stiles kneels down by one of them, opening the flaps. 

“Remember,” he whispers, touching a soft green baby blanket. _Remember,_ he thinks fiercely, but he _can’t._

He doesn’t even know if they planned for this, if they wanted this baby; he never expected to be _married,_ let alone have children. Stiles doesn’t know if he even _wants_ kids, but if his memories don’t come back he’ll be stuck with a kid he never expected to have, with a husband who intermittently makes him nervous. Would Derek even want to stay married to him? Stiles isn’t the person he married - he doesn’t know that he’ll ever be. What if Derek leaves him to be a single parent - or - and the thought is somehow worse - takes the kid with him, leaving Stiles to this house all by himself, with a life he doesn’t understand. 

He’s panicking, the blanket clenched between his fingers, struggling to force air in and out of his mouth. He feels completely overwhelmed - he’s been trying to cruise through this, believing there will be an end, but what if there’s not? What the hell is he going to do? He’s lost, adrift in the swells of an oncoming panic attack when Derek sits down beside him. Stiles doesn’t even notice him at first, too caught up in his own emotional firestorm; Derek doesn’t say anything, but he reaches out and gently uncurls Stiles’ fingers from the blanket, and then he tugs Stiles to his chest. He doesn’t put his arms around Stiles, but he rubs a hand up and down Stiles’ back, his other hand warm on Stiles’ knee, grounding - it’s exactly what Stiles needs, and when his head’s a little clearer, he’ll realize it makes sense Derek knows, since he’s probably seen it plenty of times before - but for now, Stiles closes his eyes and tries to steady his breathing. 

“You okay?” Derek asks after a while, when Stiles has mostly gotten his breathing back under control. 

“Yes,” Stiles says, and then because he _needs_ to know, he clenches his eyes shut tighter and asks, “Is this - did we _want_ this baby?”

Derek exhales unevenly and then presses a kiss to Stiles’ hair. “Yes,” he says softly, emphatically. “Yes, Stiles - more than anything.”

“Oh,” Stiles murmurs, and he’s glad his eyes are squeezed shut because he feels like crying - relief, maybe, or hurt, or grief he can’t remember any of what have probably been the best days of his life. Now Derek does put his arms around him and holds him tight, breathing warmly against his temple while Stiles maybe cries. It’s complicated.

“I know you’re scared,” Derek says softly. “But we’ll get through this.”

“What if my memories never come back?” Stiles whispers. He doesn’t think he can do it alone.

“I made a vow,” Derek replies. “And you’re still the same person I married. I’m not going anywhere.”

Stiles exhales again, shakier than before. “Thank you,” he murmurs. 

“I love you,” Derek says, and squeezes him tight. “Don’t ever forget that.”

Stiles swallows hard. “I won’t,” he promises. And then, because he doesn’t think he can be any more shaken, he summons his courage and asks, “Will you stay in our room tonight?”

“Of course,” Derek murmurs, like it’s so simple - and for him, it probably _is._ Stiles sighs and closes his eyes again, that strange ache in his chest fading away.

-

Four days later, Stiles opens his eyes in the morning and _knows._ He’s on his side in bed, facing the windows like he always does, and his eyes fall on their wedding photo like they do every morning, and he _knows._ He remembers taking his vows, Derek’s hands clammy around his, remembers the taste of their red velvet wedding cake, remembers tearing his dress shirt in his hurry to get it off in the hotel room after the reception.

He rolls onto his back and exhales hard. He remembers, too, the past few weeks - the terror and confusion and uncertainty. He remembers the baby - _their_ baby. Stiles exhales again and puts his hand on his stomach. “Hi baby,” he whispers, like he has every morning since the pregnancy test came back positive. 

Derek’s asleep next to him, his face soft in sleep. He’s slept in here every night since Stiles asked, carefully keeping to his side of the bed. Stiles shifts onto his side and watches him breathe in and out and thinks about how much he loves him, about how patient he is, and how scared he must have been this whole time.

Stiles reaches out and gently strokes his finger down Derek’s nose until Derek’s eyes flutter open and focus on him. “Hi,” Stiles says.

“Hi,” Derek echoes tiredly and Stiles will never get over how stupidly _cute_ he is when he’s just woken up, when he gives him that dopey, sleepy smile. He loves him so fucking _much_ he can’t help but lean in and kiss him, so relieved to be _him_ again, and for a moment Derek gives against him - and then he jerks back, eyes wide and searching. “Are you - ”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, his throat tightening.

_“Shit,”_ Derek hisses, and tugs Stiles on top of him, wrapping him in a bone-cracking hug. Stiles submits to it gladly, tucking his face against Derek’s throat and breathing in the scent of him eagerly. He can feel it again, the thread between him and Derek and their baby, the deep bond of mate and family - can’t believe he was ever scared of him. It’s the greatest relief he’s ever felt. “God, I missed you,” Derek murmurs. 

“Let’s not do that again,” Stiles agrees.

“No,” Derek says vehemently. “I’m banning you from the basement.”

Stiles laughs guiltily. “Only if you let me choose a different color for the nursery. That green is hideous.”

“Deal,” Derek says softly, pressing a kiss to his hair. 

Stiles lifts his head, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at Derek. “Did you mean it?” he asks. “Would you have stayed with me even if my memory never came back?”

“I told you,” Derek says, lifting a hand to cup Stiles’ cheek. “I made a vow - and you’ve always been you. It took a little coaxing when we first met, and it might have taken a little more without your memories, but I think we would have made it. Don’t you?”

Stiles smiles, remembering how carefully Derek had worked at him, how respect he’d been when Stiles could barely even look him in the eye in the beginning. “Yeah,” he says fondly. “I do.”


	104. Chapter 104

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **HAPPY BELATED HOLIDAYS, ITS CHRISTMAS IN JUNE. prompt: ""Sterek + you’re pretending we’re still together because my relatives will disprove of the break up so you’re being all sweet it’s reminding me of why i fell in love with you in the first place**  
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** General
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Derek POV, established relationship, breakups, holidays, family

Stiles fiddles with the radio, his mouth thin. He’s not from around here; he doesn’t know any of the local stations. Derek clears his throat. 

“90.3 usually has Christmas music on,” he offers. 

Stiles makes a noncommittal noise but flips to the station, thumping back against the passenger seat as the soft sound of _I’ll Be Home for Christmas_ fills the car. Derek wants to puke at the saccharine syrupyness of it. He swallows instead, trying to keep his attention on the road. 

“I’m only doing this because I already bought the plane ticket,” Stiles says abruptly.

“I know,” Derek says flatly. Stiles has already said as much. Multiple times. 

“And I’d already bought your family presents.”

“I _know,”_ Derek says, gritting his teeth.

“I’m doing this for them, anyway, not you.” Stiles turns his head to look out the window.

“And I told _you,”_ Derek snaps, fingers tightening around the steering wheel, “I’ll tell them after we go home. Don’t want to ruin their holidays,” he adds sarcastically.

Stiles sighs, but to Derek’s vague surprise, he doesn’t rise to the bait. Maybe he doesn’t want to fight - not that Derek really wants to fight either. The whole last month seems like one big fight, and he’s tired. Up until that morning at the airport, he hadn’t even seen Stiles in two weeks, and it’d hurt to see Stiles looking…normal. Derek’s been feeling like death and Stiles is just - Stiles. Impatient, fast-moving, irritated Starbucks gave him a vanilla flavor shot instead of hazelnut Stiles. Not that Derek had thought he’d die without Derek around, but it might have made him feel better if Stiles had seemed to miss him at all, and it doesn’t appear he has. It hurts.

After an excruciating hour of backwoods driving on narrow, snow-edged roads, tense silence, and all the worst Christmas carol remixes, Derek pulls into the driveway of his parents’ house with more than a little relief. It’s lit to the nines, multicolor strands of light hung along the edge of the roof and along the porch rails, wrapped up the pine trees next to the front door. 

“Your dad’s gone all out,” Stiles says dryly, as Derek pulls up behind the long line of cars in the driveway. 

“It’s his favorite time of year,” Derek replies tightly, climbing out of the car. He grabs their bags out of the trunk, but when he turns to head to the house, he finds his way blocked by Stiles, arms crossed over his chest. Derek looks longingly at the house, at the bright light from the windows spilling over the snow-covered lawn.

“Look,” Stiles says, “I’m not saying this is going to be easy, but I’ll try to make it look legit, all right?”

“Fine,” Derek replies stiffly. Then, because he really _should_ be a little grateful, he adds, “Thanks for doing this.”

Stiles smiles tightly. “Consider it my Christmas present to you,” he says, and Derek’s heart sinks. He’d brought all of the things he’d bought Stiles. Stupid, really, to think - to _hope -_

The front door opens, spilling more golden light into the night. Derek’s mom leans up against the doorframe and calls, “Is that my two favorite Californians standing out there in the snow?”

Stiles turns, and it’s like a switch flips inside him. “Hey Talia!” he calls back cheerfully. “Be right in!” He grabs some of the bags from Derek’s hand and stomps off through the snow, leaving Derek to close the trunk and trudge heavily behind him. Stiles accepts Derek’s mom’s hug happily, dumping their bags by the bottom of the stairs and disappearing into the house, like he can’t get away from Derek fast enough. 

“Hi sweetheart,” Talia says to Derek, as he comes up the front steps, knocking snow off his shoes. “You look tired. Long flight?”

Derek drops the rest of the bags by the stairs and lets her hug him. “Long day,” he says, chest aching. 

“Well,” she says warmly, ruffling his hair fondly. “We’ve got plenty of food, plenty to drink - and when you get tired, I made up the bed in the guest bedroom for you guys, all right?”

“Oh,” Derek says blankly. He hadn’t even thought about the _bed_ situation. Shit. He dredges up a smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Dinner’s in half an hour,” she says. “I’ve got to check on the roast.”

Derek lets himself get swept up in family. It’s good to see them all - he doesn’t have to pretend about that - but he keeps having the same conversation with aunts and cousins and uncles: how are classes, how’s the apartment, how are you and Stiles? Every time, his eyes dart to Stiles, who’s got a beer in his hand and looks like he’s having the time of his life, and Derek has to lie and say thing are great, just _amazing._ One of his uncles nudges him and wonders how long it’ll be before they get married, and Derek tries to laugh along with his cousins, but he feels sick. 

Peter shows up not long after they do, with Malia trailing behind him, frowning like always. She frowns deeper when she sees Stiles, her eyes snapping to Derek, and he looks back at her pleadingly: _Don’t tell, please._ She’s the only one who knows, and he hadn’t even meant to tell her; it’d just slipped out in a Facebook message. 

Malia shepherds him away from his uncle and cousins to a secluded spot by the drinks table and hisses, “Why’s he here?”

Derek sighs. “He’d already bought the ticket. Didn’t want to waste the money.”

Malia looks perplexed. “Seriously? Why didn’t you just pay him for it?”

“I offered,” Derek says. “He said he’d do this so I wouldn’t have to spend my entire time at home explaining why we’d broken up.”

Malia raises her eyebrows. “Really? And you bought that?”

Derek frowns at her. “What do you mean?”

“Honestly, who in their right mind would offer to spend Christmas with their ex?” Malia asks scornfully. “He’s not over you.”

“I - that’s not true,” Derek says. “I’ve tried talking with him. He says - it doesn’t matter. He’s not interested in getting back together.”

“Mm,” Malia says dismissively, turning to pour herself a large glass of merlot. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“It’s not going to happen,” Derek says unhappily. Malia opens her mouth to argue and he says, “Just - drop it, please. I’m not getting my hopes up. I don’t need my heart broken twice this month.”

Malia closes her mouth, her face softening a little. “Sorry,” she says, which is a lot, coming from her. “You want some wine?”

Derek sighs again. “Yes, please.”

Dinner’s rough. Derek and Stiles sit next to each other - it’s all about appearances, right? - and Derek’s missed him so much he keeps catching himself staring at Stiles, drinking in his familiar mannerisms. Stiles is on fire, chatting cheerfully with the family around them, his cheeks flushed with good cheer and alcohol. Derek knows he’s an absolute idiot for agreeing to this; he should have just paid Stiles for the tickets, endured the shitty holiday, made a clean break of it. He’s stupid for bringing him here, for hoping it might change something. All that’s happening now is he’s getting a taste of the life they used to have together and it makes him sick.

Up the table, Derek’s mom leans forward and says, “Derek, Stiles, we’re so happy you were able to join us for Christmas. Stiles, your dad wasn’t upset, was he?”

“Nah,” Stiles says easily. “Christmas has never been a big deal for us. He’s working - someone’s got to be on patrol.” He reaches over, putting his hand on Derek’s. “I’d rather be here.”

Derek stares at Stiles’ hand covering his, heart pounding in his chest. Stiles had done it so easily, like he hadn’t even thought about it. Part of Derek wants to twine their fingers together, but another greater part of him is panicking just touching him, so he pulls his hand away under the guise of picking up his wine glass. Stiles startles a little at the movement; the way his eyes widen and lips part tell Derek he hadn’t even realized what he’d done. Derek doesn’t know what to think. Down the table, Malia raises her eyebrows at him.

“Well, you should tell him that he’s welcome here next year,” Talia says. Derek struggles to keep his face neutral. _Next year._

“I will, thank you,” Stiles says.

Derek can’t stand it; he turns his head and forcefully engages himself in conversation with Cora and one of his aunts about Cora’s time doing charity work in Venezuela. He’s hyperaware of Stiles sitting next to him; occasionally, he hears Stiles mention him, or them, or their apartment, which Stiles left three weeks ago and hasn’t stepped foot in since. 

“So what about you, Derek?” his aunt asks, turning toward him. “Any big travel plans? Besides the holidays, of course.”

“Not particularly,” Derek says. “With work - ”

“Oh, come on,” Stiles says, suddenly leaning into the conversation. “What about that cruise we were talking about?”

Derek wants to glare at him; they _had_ talked about one, months ago. _Fuck_ Stiles for bringing it up. He hones his anger and says, “You know I need to save my vacation days.” Stiles’s eyebrows draw together, and Derek stares at him as he pointedly says, “I’m thinking about finding a position at a different school. I might need those days for interviews.”

Stiles’ lips part in surprise, hurt flashing across his face as Derek’s relatives make excited noises. 

“Does that mean you might be moving?” Derek’s mom asks hopefully. “Both of you?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says, still looking at Stiles. “I guess we’ll see.” _There,_ he thinks bitterly. Now he’s set up a reasonable reason for them to break up. 

Stiles forces a brittle smile onto his face. “We may have to do long distance for a while,” he agrees.

Stiles is quiet after that, though, pushing food around his plate halfheartedly. Derek wants to feel victorious, but he just feels tired. As much as Stiles has hurt him, he doesn’t want to hurt Stiles. He just wants life to be easy again. 

After dinner, Derek helps his dad and Laura clear the table while the rest of the family filters into the living room. Laura bumps her shoulder against Derek’s as they carry plates into the kitchen. 

“You okay?” she asks softly. “You guys are acting…weird.”

“Long day,” Derek tells her. “I’m tired.”

“You’re really going to look for a new job, though?” she asks eagerly. “What about - would you come back here? To the east coast?”

Derek hesitates, his heart hurting. Without Stiles, there’s nothing tying him to California. “Maybe,” he hazards, and she makes a delighted noise.

He’d love to go up to bed - and probably no one would blame him if he did - but it’s Christmas Eve, and there are _traditions;_ in the morning, when it’s just his parents and his siblings, they’ll exchange presents, but tonight it’s small gifts with the whole extended family, and it seems to take forever, lots of laughter, every present with a story of where it was found or why it was perfect for the receiver. He and Stiles sit on the couch, crammed down at one end while his cousins fight over one of those holiday tins of flavored popcorn. It’s uncomfortable; they’re too close, and Derek is hot in his sweater after two large glasses of wine, and he can _smell_ Stiles, the familiar, comforting scent of his aftershave. Their sheets - _his_ sheets - don’t smell like Stiles anymore and of all the things, for some reason, that hurts the most. 

Finally, after he’s opened any number of small gifts from his extended family - books, mostly, a nice pen, cufflinks, a mug from Malia that says _World’s Okayest Professor -_ and they’ve fallen into the coffee/cookies/idle chat time that follows, Derek manages to extricate himself from the couch and rises to his feet, announcing to the room at large, “I think I’m going to head up to bed.”

And as everyone makes various noises of protest and sympathy, Derek looks down at Stiles and adds, “Are you coming?”

Stiles, who’s been looking more drawn by the moment, nods minutely and gets to his feet as well. They’re subjected to a farewell round of hugs from all Derek’s relatives and then finally they can escape to the relative quiet of the front hallway, where they retrieve their luggage and head upstairs. Derek’s dreading this part - not just sharing a bed, but there’s going to be some kind of confrontation; he can tell by the way Stiles is so ominously silent. He tries to head it off by grabbing his bag of toiletries as soon as they dump their bags in the guest room, disappearing into the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth (which, admittedly, feels amazing after spending all day on a plane), and he steels himself when he gets back to the room, but all that happens then is that Stiles slips out to use the bathroom as well.

While he’s gone, Derek changes out of his clothes into something more comfortable for sleeping in and then he gets into bed, not even realizing that he’s automatically chosen _his_ side until he’s pulling the covers up. He opens a book and stares at the words, but he’s not really reading; he’s waiting.

It’s centuries before he hears Stiles come back down the hall, the creak of the door as it opens and closes behind him. Derek keeps his eyes on his book, but he tenses, following Stiles’ shape as he crosses the room and drops his bag back into his suitcase. He just stands there for a long, long moment, and tension fills the whole room; it’s so quiet Derek can hear his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears. 

“Did you mean what you said downstairs?” Stiles asks abruptly, turning to look at him. “About finding a new job?”

Derek closes his book and lifts his head to look at Stiles. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I’ve been working on my resume.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Stiles asks, looking hurt.

Derek looks at him for a long moment before he replies, “You didn’t want to talk to me.”

Stiles’ mouth goes thin. “So what, then?” he asks, anger creeping into his voice. “You’ll look for a new job _after_ we break up, but not when I asked you to? I told you for _months_ \- ”

Derek shrugs. “You were right. After you left, when all I had was work, it was easy to see.” He smiles bitterly. “And now - I want a fresh start.”

Stiles opens his mouth and then closes it, folding his arms over his chest. He looks angry and unhappy. “So that’s it?” he asks tightly. “You’re just going to leave?”

“Like you did?” Derek snaps, before he can pull it back, and Stiles sways like he’s just been struck across the face. Derek inhales deeply and then says, “What do you want me to say? What’s keeping me there without you? All I’ve got now is a shitty job and an apartment I don’t want to stay in.”

Stiles flinches. In the silence that stretches between them, laughter from downstairs filters in, muffled and joyous. Finally, Stiles moves, settling onto the edge of the bed, perching there like he’s ready to take flight. “I never wanted this,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Derek sighs. “I know,” he says softly, because deep down, he knows that Stiles only wanted to help him, and the hurt that came with it was a side effect. “I should have listened to you.”

“I didn’t want to be right,” Stiles says. “I just - it was making you miserable, which was making _me_ miserable, and - I want you to be happy.” He hesitates, looking dejected, and adds, “I don’t blame you for wanting a new start.”

Derek looks at him, watches him pick fluff off the comforter. “Why’d you come here?” he asks.

Stiles doesn’t look up. “Because I missed you,” he says. “Because I’m selfish and I wanted thing to be like they used to be, and - ” He sighs softly. “I know that was stupid. I’ll leave tomorrow. Let you get on with your new life.”

“I don’t want a life without you in it,” Derek says quietly, curling his fingers in the comforter. He doesn’t dare look at Stiles, but he senses how Stiles goes very still. “I’m sorry,” he says, but it doesn’t feel like enough. “I put work first, and I was selfish and stubborn - and I’ll always regret that. I’m going to find a new job, and - and I want to be a better person.”

Stiles is quiet for a moment, and then he shifts forward, offering his hand to Derek. After a moment of hesitation, Derek takes it, exhaling slowly as their fingers twine together. “If you want to go somewhere,” Stiles says slowly, “and start a new life…you don’t have to do it alone.”

Derek hardly dares to breathe, let alone hope. “You mean that?” he asks. “You’ll give me another chance?”

“This has been a shitty month,” Stiles admits. “But the shittest part has been not having you around. I keep forgetting you’re not there and I go to tell you something or show you something and I just - I miss you like hell.” He breathes out harshly, his eyes dark. “We’ve both got things to work on - I mean, I shouldn’t have left angry like that; that’s on me - but…I want to make it work.”

“So do I,” Derek breathes. “It feels like - like half of me’s been missing.”

“Fucking sucks, doesn’t it?” Stiles asks, smiling humorlessly. 

Derek nods. He’s scared - scared this is a dream, or that things will go wrong again - but Stiles is _there,_ watching him unblinkingly, a faint expression of worry and nervousness on his face - like he’s scared of the same things. Derek sets his book on the nightstand and pushes the covers down next to him: an invitation. Stiles’ shoulders slump; he accepts without hesitation, settling in close to Derek, and they slot together like they were never apart. They both sigh on the same breath, and Stiles turns his face, pressing his cheek to Derek’s shoulder. 

“This is mine,” Derek says, tugging at the hem of the shirt Stiles is wearing.

“I may have stolen a couple,” Stiles says, with a short, guilty laugh. He sighs again. “They don’t smell like you anymore.”

“Our bed doesn’t smell like you,” Derek says quietly. He hesitates before asking: “Are you going to move back in?”

“I want to,” Stiles says. “Do you think I should? I mean - should we go back to just dating?”

“I already know what dating you is like,” Derek says, his hand finding Stiles’ and winding their fingers together again. “I want you to come home.”

“Yeah, me too,” Stiles says, the corners of his mouth curving up. They sit in silence for a while and Derek closes his eyes, luxuriating in being close to Stiles, even the familiar way Stiles always turns his knee to dig into Derek’s thigh a welcome moment. Then Stiles abruptly says, “Fuck, my dad and Scott are going to be so fucking smug about this. They both said this would happen.”

Derek snorts softly. “Malia too,” he says. “Are we that predictable?”

“Or just that awesome?” Stiles squeezes Derek’s hand. “I have a confession to make, though.”

“Oh?” Derek says a trifle uneasily, his mind immediately going to any number of things that Stiles might have done in the weeks they were broken up.

“Not like _that,”_ Stiles says. “I - brought you presents.”

“Oh,” Derek says again, with great relief. “I did too.”

Stiles tilts his head back and laughs - a real, happy laugh. “I guess even we knew it,” he says. He looks at Derek, his eyes soft. “Merry Christmas, Der.”

Derek smiles, feeling whole for the first time in weeks. “Merry Christmas, Stiles.”


	105. Chapter 105

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **My darling[@blacktofade](https://tmblr.co/mm5UPBOPxb0-uRweJxX8n7A)‘s birthday was, uh, two months ago, so here I am, ten years late with her birthday present. ILU BB!! If this lil au seems like it should be a full-length fic, that’s because it desperately tried to be, and I had to keep chopping at it to keep it under control, like some kind of rouge hedge on meth.  
> **  
> 
> **Pairing:** Sterek
> 
> **Rating:** Mature
> 
> **Applicable Tags:** Stiles POV, breakups, hookups, mpreg, vague abo, deputy!Derek, miscommunication

In the hours after the fight, Stiles drives and drives and drives. At first it’s late, and then it’s so late that it’s early, but he keeps on driving, fueled by anger, mostly in silence, though somewhere around the middle of Pennsylvania he thaws enough to put on some music. He stops at a rest stop just past the Ohio border to get a breakfast sandwich, and as he sits at a dirty table and eats, he thinks: _shit._  


Doubt begins creeping into his thoughts; maybe he’d been too hasty. Maybe he should have given Jay a chance to explain - but no, no, _fuck_ that. He’d always made it really fucking clear that if their relationship ever got to the point where cheating seemed like a good option, he’d rather just be broken up with and yet look what fucking happened. Stiles scoffs scornfully, chucking the wrapper to his sandwich in a nearby trash can. Two and a half years down the drain.

Refreshed by a new wave of anger, Stiles heads back to his car and gets back on the highway. He manages to wrangle his phone from his pocket and, ignoring the multiple text and missed call notifications, he calls his dad, who picks up with a sigh. 

“You know what time it is?” his dad asks, and Stiles looks at his dash guiltily. He’s been so worked up that he forgot about the time difference - or the fact that even on the east coast, it’s early, the sun barely above the horizon. 

“Sorry,” Stiles says with a wince. “I’ll call back later.”

“It’s fine,” Dad says with another sigh. “I just got home from an overnight shift. Everything all right? You’re not usually up before ten.”

Stiles opens his mouth and then closes his mouth, startled by the raw ache in his eyes. 

“Stiles?” his dad presses, somehow gentle and sharp at the same time; Stiles is worrying him. 

“I’m - ” Stiles clears his throat, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Um. How would you feel about me moving home for a while?”

Dad’s silent for a long moment. Stiles keeps his fingers tapping nervously at the steering wheel, eyes on the road. “Where are you?” his dad asks eventually. 

“Hit Ohio about an hour ago,” Stiles says, and his father sighs for a third time.

“Guess I got no say in it then, huh?”

“Well - I can probably stay with Scott,” Stiles says anxiously. “If it’s - ”

“I’m messing with you, son,” his dad says gently. “You know you’ve always got a place here.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles says quietly, that ache back in his eyes. 

“You want to talk about it?”

“God no,” Stiles says, laughing to keep himself from - something. “Maybe in a few days.”

“All right,” Dad says ambivalently. “Well you keep yourself safe on the road, all right? And if you need money for gas or a place to stay along the way, let me know.”

“I’m fine, Dad,” Stiles says softly. “I’m - I _will_ be fine. But thanks.”

“Just take care of yourself,” his father tells him. “It’s a long drive.”

“I will,” Stiles promises.

He makes it another two hours before he has to cede defeat; somewhere around Toledo, his anger ebbs and his eyes begin to droop, so he pulls off the highway and finds a motel where he can crash. The room smells musty but the bed feels like heaven; he’s asleep before he can think. When he wakes up in the early evening, he’s got more text notifications. Most of them are from Jay, and he sees the beginning of one message - _look i’m sorry about what happened but you -_ before Stiles deletes it angrily; there aren’t any _buts_ here. He might not have been a perfect boyfriend, but if Jay wants to try to blame this on him, he can get fucked. Stiles deletes all his texts, all his voicemails, and, for good measure, blocks his number.

Still. Stiles has to grin when he sees one message is from Scott: _your dad says you’re coming back?! to stay?_

 _For now,_ Stiles texts back. _For a while._

Scott replies just as Stiles is crossing into Indiana: _Dude we’re throwing you a party the moment you get back. Lydia’s already planning it_

Stiles laughs, but it’s the last time he smiles for miles. The drive is long and boring, and without anything - or anyone - there to distract him, he’s left to stew. He keeps replaying everything in his head, remembers the stupid fucking look on Jay’s face when Stiles had picked up his phone and seen the texts from the other guy, remembers the way Jay had kept ricocheting back and forth between apology and anger while Stiles packed his bags. Stiles knows he did the right thing, but he doesn’t remember being single being this...lonely. He keeps seeing shit - a stupid license plate, or some driver makes an asshole move - and he keeps forgetting he’s alone, turns to point it out to Jay - and he’s not there. 

The nights are worse. The lumpy motel beds seem huge when he’s got no one to share them with. He starfishes over the sheets and goosebumps break out on his arms, but he’s not cold. He’s furious and he’s hurt, and he knows he did the right thing leaving - he _knows -_ but some small part of him can’t help but feel like he should be back in their cramped apartment, drinking warm beers out on the fire escape. He wonders if it’s him that’s fucked up; if his judgement is _that_ bad.

It’s at least a four-day drive back to California, depending on how long he drives every day, and Stiles briefly entertains the thought that maybe he’ll take his time, see some sights; he hasn’t passed Yellowstone yet, or maybe he could wander down to Las Vegas. He’s spent too long in the car already, though, and he hates the silence. He just wants to go home. 

It’s a good decision; when he comes down the Redwood Highway and sees the sign welcoming him to California, it feels like some of the weight comes off his shoulders. The rest of it disappears when he reaches Beacon Hills, and he turns down the street to his dad’s house and sees his dad waiting for him at the end of the driveway, all too casual with his hands in his pockets and pleased smile on his face. Stiles feels like he’s ten again, almost falling out of the car in his haste to get out and throw his arms around his dad. 

“Can’t believe that old thing made it across the whole US,” his dad says, hugging him tightly.

“Twice,” Stiles says, his voice muffled against his dad’s shoulder. 

“Twice,” Dad agrees gently, and claps him on the back.

Being back in Beacon Hills is strange. Stiles left for college and never really came back, just for a little while every couple of years for the holidays. It’s like living in a strange alternate universe version of the town he grew up in, familiar on the surface but different underneath; new neighbors in the houses on their street, different cars parked in the driveways. Old stores he remembers going to as a kid have closed their doors, standing empty and hollow, or new businesses have taken their place. There are empty lots where he remembers buildings, and buildings where he remembers empty lots. Main Street has traffic lights now, and the woods around the high school have been cut down to make room for more soccer fields. 

Stiles seeks out his friends, and they’re familiar but different too. They all still live in town - some of them left for college, sure, but they all migrated back long before Stiles did. They throw him the party Scott promised, and Stiles gets absolutely hammered, and no one talks to him about Jay, and it’s _perfect._

Life’s quiet in Beacon Hills, but he doesn’t mind. It’s strange to wake up every morning and not hear the constant grind of traffic and horns and sirens outside his window - takes some getting used to, after so many years in the city - but he likes that in the morning, he can go out onto the back steps with a cup of coffee, and all he can smell is fresh air, not the ever changing miasma that is New York City. Stiles doesn’t have much to do with himself; he called his boss and quit somewhere along the drive back - Ohio, he thinks - and he’s applying to jobs, but there’s not much call for a software engineer with a master’s degree up here, but it doesn’t really matter. This isn’t necessarily a permanent move, and he’s got enough of an emergency fund built up in the bank that he’s in no rush to find something. 

Stiles mostly just hangs around the house, or at the station with his dad; he’s pulling a lot of night shifts to cover some gaps in staffing, and since the drive messed up Stiles’ sleep schedule like crazy, he doesn’t mind keeping his dad company. It’s nice to spend time with him, and the station’s one of the few places in town that’s mostly unchanged. There are a few new deputies, and the holding cells have been painted a pleasing shade of blue, but other than that, the biggest change is that the coffee maker in the break room has been replaced with a Keurig machine - life’s just that exciting in their small town.

Sometimes his dad picks him up at the house and they go out on patrol together, driving the quiet streets. If not, Stiles gets into the habit of swinging by the station around eleven with food; it’s quiet then, usually only his dad and someone running the front desk, with a skeleton crew out on patrol. 

About a week and a half after returning to Beacon Hills, Stiles heads over to the station with a couple bags of food from the diner - in general, he tries to keep his dad eating as healthy as possible, but he’s all right with a treat once in awhile. He’s too busy trying to juggle the bags and their drinks to pay much attention to what’s going on in the station, so once he’s backed in through the doors, he just heads for his dad’s office, only to hear a sharp voice say, “Hey - _hey!”_

Stiles comes to a halt with a sigh, and turns to look at the deputy manning the front desk. He must be new, because Stiles has never seen him before, and he definitely would remember if he had, because the deputy is _gorgeous_ , just straight-up angry underwear model gorgeous. Even the way he’s currently glaring at Stiles makes him a little weak in the knees.

Maybe he’s staring, because the deputy snaps his fingers and says, “Can I help you?”

Stiles blinks, a little amused and also now a little annoyed. “Did you just snap your fingers at me?”

The deputy gives him a belligerent look. “You want to answer my question? What are you doing in here?”

Stiles holds up the bags of food. “I’m here to see my dad.”

The deputy looks at the food and then at Stiles, and his frown only deepens. “No you’re not.”

Stiles stares at him, bewildered. “Huh?”

“His son lives on the east coast,” the deputy says suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“I’m Stiles,” Stiles says, almost at a loss for words. “I just moved back. I - you want to see my license? I’m not _lying._ ”

To his relief, his dad appears in the doorway to his office, looking amused. “Everything all right out here?”

 _“Dad,”_ Stiles says, aggrieved. “Tell Deputy Diligence here that I’m your son.”

His dad stares at him for so long that Stiles actually begins to feel a little nervous, and then he smiles and says to the deputy, “It’s all right, Hale. He’s mine. He moved back to town while you were on vacation.”

Stiles sticks his tongue out at the deputy, who narrows his eyes at him. “ _Told_ you.”

“He’s just doing his job,” Dad says genially. “Stiles, this is Derek Hale. He’s been with us - what, a year now, Derek?”

The deputy nods, his eyes still narrowed at Stiles. “Nice to meet you,” he says sarcastically. 

“A pleasure,” Stiles harps back, and his dad rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, will you get in here so I can eat?”

 _“Fine,”_ Stiles says, with a showy sigh, sidling into the office. 

His father shuts the door behind them, rubbing his hands over his face wearily. _“Please_ don’t start,” he says.

“Start what?” Stiles asks warily, dumping their food on the desk. 

“I know you,” Dad says accusingly. “I know you, and _that -_ “ He stabs a finger in the direction of the front desk. “ - was flirting.”

Stiles stares at him, mouth agape. “I - that was _not.”_

His dad just shakes his head as he drops down into his chair. “I know you,” he repeats. 

Stiles’ mouth opens and closes a few times before he hazards, “Well, he _is_ pretty hot - ”

His dad waves his hands around frantically. “No! _No._ The last thing I need is you getting mixed up with one of my officers. I’ve got _rules,_ Stiles; I don’t mix work with my home life.”

“Yeah, but _I_ don’t work here,” Stiles says with a grin. Dad glares at him, and he throws his hands up in defeat. “I’m _kidding._ I’m not really ready for anything right now anyway, c’mon.”

His dad eyes him, his face softening. “Everything all right on that front?”

Stiles shrugs, settling down in a chair across the desk from his dad. “Fine as it can be.” 

And, thinking about it later, he really is fine. Maybe it’s the biggest sign that there were more issues with his relationship than he realized, because after that initial first week of hurting, Stiles doesn’t miss Jay. He misses intimacy and the feeling of sharing a life with someone, and he misses sex, but he’s weirdly not upset. Angry still, sure, but he’s not sad. He’s certainly not ready to leap into another relationship, but the more he thinks about it, the more he begins to believe that maybe their relationship was over long before he left. He almost feels relieved. 

The new deputy is at the station the next couple of times Stiles goes over there, and every time, Stiles says hello, but Deputy Hale never says a word in reply, just narrows his eyes at him until Stiles disappears into his dad’s office. Stiles usually wouldn’t be bothered by someone not liking him, but the station’s basically a second home to him, most of the deputies like family, so he feels like he’s got to make _some_ kind of effort to make amends.

The next time he stops by the station, he’s got coffee for his dad - and for Deputy Hale, too. The deputy glances up at him as he enters the station, but returns his attention to his paperwork, not looking up as Stiles approaches the desk. He carefully sets the coffee down on the counter, and only then does Deputy Hale look up, first at the coffee, then at Stiles, unimpressed. 

“What do you want?” he asks, his tone uninviting. 

“Peace offering,” Stiles says, nudging the cup a little closer to Deputy Hale’s keyboard. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

Deputy Hale looks at the cup for a long moment. “There sugar in this?”

“It’s black,” Stiles says warily. 

“Good,” the deputy says. He looks up at Stiles and a small smile plays around the corners of his mouth. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Stiles says weakly because wow, _wow_ Deputy Hale’s smile has _done_ something to him.

“You know, I knew who you were,” Deputy Hale says, picking up the coffee and taking a slow sip.

Stiles sputters, “What?!”

“He has a picture of you in his office,” Deputy Hale says dryly. 

“You’ve been playing me!” Stiles says indignantly. 

Deputy Hale just raises his eyebrows as the phone begins to ring. “Your dad’s waiting for you,” he says placidly, as he picks up the receiver. 

“I’ve got your number, Hale,” Stiles says, starting to grin as he backs away from the desk. “This isn’t over.”

“Call me Derek,” Deputy Hale says, another faint smile hovering on his lips as he puts the phone to his ear. “Beacon County Sheriff’s Station.”

Stiles is still grinning as he steps into his dad’s office; he tries to hide it, but his dad still notices. His father sighs. “I warned you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says, with as much dignity as he can manage. His dad puts his head in his hands.

Stiles tries to feel bad, but he really doesn’t. He’s bored and he’s lonely - most of his friends in town have normal lives, with jobs and families - and he doesn’t mind hanging out with his dad, but after two weeks of seeing him every night, they’re basically caught up on all the things they’ve missed in each other’s lives, so it’s kind of nice to get to know someone new. Now he knows that Derek’s got a sense of humor, he’s a lot more approachable and honestly, Derek’s like god-tier hot, so Stiles will happily take any opportunity to lean up against the front desk and ogle him a bit.

He takes to stopping by the front desk for a few minutes before he heads in to see his dad, and to his private delight, Derek doesn’t seem to mind; he’ll put aside whatever he’s working on, whether it’s paperwork or a crossword puzzle and give Stiles his attention, which, if Stiles is being honest with himself, feels really fucking good. Derek’s not much of a conversationalist himself, but the person Stiles begins to glean from him is a dry, sarcastic asshole - a man after Stiles’ own heart, basically. 

He’s not looking for anything. That’s what Stiles tells his dad, and it’s what he tells Lydia when she offers to set him up with one of her friends, and it’s what he tells himself, too. It’s sort of true; he _not_ looking for anything, and he thinks it’d be kind of insane to throw himself back into dating only a month after breaking up with his cheating boyfriend of two and a half years. He could probably use some time to just be alone. And it’s not like he expects anything from Derek - if they just end up as friends, that’s perfectly fine, it’s just - Stiles is horny, like, _a lot,_ and Derek’s super hot, not to mention he’s the kind of guy Stiles would want to date if, you know, he was hypothetically on the market. 

He’s embarrassed because his dad is right; he flirts with Derek. But the thing is - and he’s a little rusty here, so maybe he’s way off base - he thinks Derek’s flirting back. He’s at the station almost every night because, as he explains when Stiles jokingly asks what he’d done to be punished with desk duty, he was struck by a distracted driver during a traffic stop and fractured his pelvis. He’d been out on leave for a month, then on desk duty for another two, but that isn’t important - well, it _is,_ and of course Stiles feels _bad_ for him, but the important thing is that when Derek tells him he should be cleared for full duty within the next few days, and Stiles pretends (hah, _pretends)_ to look disappointed and asks, “So does that mean I don’t get to see you anymore?”, Derek’s cheeks go pink and he says “It doesn’t have to,” and that, _that_ is the important thing. 

Of course, that’s when his dad comes out of his office and strongarms Stiles into going out on patrol with him, but things aren’t over. Stiles grins as they drive along the quiet streets. Things are just beginning. 

-

Three days later, Stiles is getting out of the shower when he’s hit by a wave of lightheadedness so strong it nearly knocks him on his ass; he catches himself just in time and manages to sit on the edge of the tub, his head swimming. Maybe the shower was too hot, he thinks dazed, and then his palms start to itch and his mouth begins to salivate, and he dives for the toilet in time to heave up what little he’s got in him. When the wave of nausea has passed, Stiles shakily picks himself up and sits back down on the edge of the tub, breathing heavily.

There’s a gentle knock on the door. “Stiles?” Dad asks. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Stiles breathes. He swallows hard and grimaces. “Must be those tacos we got at the gas station last night.”

His father chuckles ruefully. “Can’t say those sat too well with me either. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m okay, Dad,” Stiles assures him, wiping at his mouth. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“All right,” his dad says warily. “I’m going back to bed.”

“I’ll leave the Tums out for you,” Stiles calls, and hears his dad laugh as he heads back down the hall.

That night, Stiles heads into the station with a couple salads - for his dad and Derek, because he’s still feeling the gas station tacos - but he’s disappointed to see another deputy at the front desk. “Hey man,” he says, sidling up to the desk. “Is Hale off tonight?”

“He’s back on patrol duty,” Parrish says, shoving disconsolately at a pile of paperwork. “I sure didn’t miss this.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, dismayed. “Oh. You, uh, want a salad?”

“You don’t want it?” Parrish asks, surprised.

“Nah,” Stiles says, tossing it on the desk. “I’m not hungry.”

He goes and hangs out with his dad for a while, watches him grumpily eat his salad, and it’s fine, but he’s bored. He wanted to talk to Derek - knows he could have made Derek smirk about the gas station tacos. His dad’s bored too; after he’s finished eating, he sighs and says, “It’s quiet here tonight. You want to drive around with me?”

Stiles sighs too. “Nah. I think I’m going to head home and go to bed.” Sleep sounds like a good plan; he’s still not feeling quite right. He stops in to use the bathroom before he leaves, and has to lean up against the wall when he gets hit by another wave of lightheadedness. It eventually passes, but it takes long enough that by the time Stiles comes out of the bathroom, his dad’s already left to go on patrol, and the building’s quiet. He decides to step into the break room to get a glass of water, and he’s startled to find Derek in there, leaning up against the counter. Derek raises his eyebrows when he sees Stiles. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “Your dad’s on patrol.”

“I know; he just left,” Stiles says. “Thought you were too.”

Derek nods toward the coffee maker. “I stopped in for a break.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “I was just heading out too - unless you want some company?” 

He tries not to sound too earnest, but Derek doesn’t seem to mind; he gives Stiles a faint smile and says, “I wouldn’t say no.”

Stiles grins, buoyed, and steps up to the sink to grab the glass of water he originally stopped in for. “How’s it feel?” he asks as he fills a glass from the faucet. “Being back on patrol?”

“Not as boring as being here – present company excluded,” Derek says, picking up his cup of coffee. “I’m rusty. I’ve forgotten what my cop voice sounds like.”

“What, it’s not the voice you used when you accused me of impersonating myself?” Stiles teases.

Derek snorts and sets down his cup of coffee. He straightens, casually readjusting his utility belt, and it’s like something in him shifts; suddenly, he’s a cop, a tightness to his body that wasn’t there before. It occurs to Stiles that he’s never seen Derek out from behind the front desk. He swallows, struck by how even though they’re almost the same height, Derek’s wider in the shoulders, just the right amount of muscle on him. “What are you doing back here?” Derek asks softly, taking a step closer. There’s a note in his voice Stiles has heard before, plenty of times, when he’s watched his dad’s talk to suspects, but hearing it from Derek makes his whole body warm. “Civilians aren’t supposed to go past the lobby.”

Stiles swallows again. “But I don’t count, right?”

“You don’t count,” Derek confirms, dropping the cop voice. He’s still close. Stiles feels like a planet on a collision course with the sun.

“That’s - you got the voice down,” Stiles says, his eyes widening as Derek step in even closer. “Uh, do - do you want - ” 

“Yeah,” Derek breathes, the space between them suddenly gone, their mouths meeting. Stiles is lightheaded again and it’s not the gas station tacos; it’s the feeling of a body pressed up against his, Derek’s hands curled against his waist, his mouth against Stiles’, hot, hot. Stiles folds his arms around Derek’s neck, his whole body thrumming. Derek smells just as good as Stiles imagined he would, and he’s delighted to discover that it’s not the heady, spicy alpha scent he expected, but the softer, richer scent of a beta, the one that makes his toes curl. He breathes it in deeply, tilts his head back as Derek kisses along his jaw, teeth grazing his skin. He’s already getting hard, starved for touch, for any kind of positive attention - and the realization is enough to bring him crashing back down, make him remember where they are.

He pushes at Derek’s shoulders until Derek pulls back, his brow creasing. “This is - we’re in the _station,”_ Stiles hisses.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Derek murmurs. “No one’s going to see us.”

“What about Parrish?”

“If he notices, he’s not going to say anything,” Derek says. “Do you want to stop?”

Stiles chews at his lip for a moment, but he already knows the answer. “Nah,” he admits with a grin, and Derek smiles in response. He leans in to kiss Stiles again, slower and sweeter this time, his hands sliding up and down Stiles’ sides; it’s oddly soothing. They kiss and kiss until Stiles’ lips begin to feel raw from rubbing up against Derek’s stubble, and like he knows Stiles needs a break, Derek tilts his head and moves to Stiles’ neck, his kisses growing wetter, breathier. Stiles exhales shakily, pressing into Derek’s touch, his hips rising without him realizing it - and he can feel Derek’s hard too. 

Stiles exhales again and slips his hand between them, cupping Derek’s dick through the rough material of his uniform, and Derek makes a choked off noise against his neck, hips jolting into Stiles’ touch. And - god, Stiles wants him; he wants Derek to bend him over one of the break room tables and fuck him until he can’t breathe - but as horny as he is, he doesn’t think he has the balls to do it in the station. He just - he curls his fingers tighter, eliciting another muffled groan from Derek. Maybe he doesn’t have the balls to go all the way, but he’s willing to do _something._

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Can I blow you?”

Derek pulls back to stare at him, wide-eyed, and Stiles, staring back at him, can only think about how gorgeous his hazel eyes are. “You - you want to?”

“Mmhm,” Stiles nods, licking his lips pointedly. 

Derek’s gaze flickers between his eyes and his mouth and - briefly - to the break room door and then he nods slowly. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Stiles grins, hands going for Derek’s waist as he sinks to his knees, carefully setting his utility belt on the floor. “Trust me - this isn’t a mouth you want to miss.”

“Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Derek says sarcastically, though he looks a little nervous when he says it, stomach muscles tightening as Stiles unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants. 

“Promise I won’t bite,” Stiles says, curling his fingers in the waistband of Derek’s pants and underwear. He pulls them down slowly, making sure Derek’s got plenty of time to stop him if he changes his mind, but Derek just exhales. Stiles is a little nervous too, mostly because he’s worried about his dad bursting in at any moment. He shakes his head a little and focuses on the task at hand, which is a _really_ nice dick. He really wants to get his mouth on it, but Derek’s not quite fully erect, so Stiles curls his hand around him, jerking him off slowly. He watches Derek as he does, reveling in the way his lips part and his breath goes a little shaky, the way his eyelashes flutter like he’s fighting the urge to close his eyes. Stiles keeps watching him as he wets his lips and takes him into his mouth, and he grins at the way Derek groans softly. 

“I’m not going to last very long,” Derek admits, closing his eyes.

Stiles shrugs his shoulders, pulling back to say, “Doesn’t matter, as long as you have a good time.”

Derek huffs out a weak laugh. “That’s already a guarantee.”

Stiles grins again before getting back on track, sinking his mouth down on Derek’s dick, just shallow little pulls at first, then deeper, testing how far he can go. He’s pleased to report that he can still deepthroat with the best of them, taking Derek in all the way to the base, the tip of his nose just touching Derek’s abdomen. 

“Shit, Stiles,” Derek breathes shakily, one of his hands touching Stiles’ cheek then, tentatively, his throat. 

Stiles pulls off him slowly, and grins up at Derek, lips slick with spit. “Told you,” he says cheekily. 

Getting Derek to come is almost too easy; Stiles is nothing if not good at observation, and he tracks the different ways Derek reacts to the things he does. He likes the deepthroating, but if the way his breathing picks up when Stiles is blowing him shallow and fast is any sign, he likes that even more. Maybe he’s thinking about fucking Stiles, imagining his ass instead of his mouth; he’s certainly not alone in that, because Stiles is thinking about it too. He pulls at Derek’s hips, guiding him until he’s thrusting into Stiles’ mouth, holding his head in place with a gentle hand, and it feels so fucking good Stiles has to close his eyes and rub at the bulge in his jeans. He feels it when Derek’s getting close, because his thrusts falter, uncertain.

“I’m - where?” Derek pants. “Where should I - ”

“My face,” Stiles groans. “Fuck, please - “

“Shh,” Derek hisses. He takes a hold of himself, jerking himself off with quick, ruthless movements, breathing heavily between clenched teeth. Stiles gazes up at him, so turned on he feels like he’s on fire. Derek comes with a choked-off moan, striping Stiles’ mouth and cheek with come, and Stiles shudders with delight, gripping at his dick so he won’t come just yet. 

Derek stands still for a moment after he’s finished, his chest heaving - then he lunges for Stiles, hauling him to his feet and smashing their mouths together regardless of the mess he’s left on Stiles’ face. His hands make quick work of Stiles’ pants, shoving them down to his thighs. Stiles nearly sobs when Derek gets his hand around his dick, hips jolting up into his grasp. Derek makes quick work of him, jerking him off until Stiles buries his face against Derek’s neck and comes with a muffled groan, legs shaking.

Derek holds him steady for what seems like hours, until Stiles’ heart stops racing and his legs feel steady again. “Holy shit,” Stiles mutters against Derek’s throat. Derek laughs quietly, taking a step back so he can look at Stiles, eyes lingering on the come still on his face. 

“You sure are something,” Derek tells him quietly, pulling his pants and underwear back up. 

Stiles grins weakly as he does the same. “Is that a good thing?”

“I think so,” Derek replies, smiling faintly.

Still grinning, Stiles turns to the sink, wetting a paper towel so he can clean his face off. Behind him, Derek picks his utility belt up off the floor and buckles it back around his waist. “Do you want a ride home?” Derek asks.

“I drove,” Stiles says, rubbing the paper towel over his face. “Thanks though.” He lifts his head. “All good?”

Derek snorts and takes the towel from him, dabbing at his forehead. “I made a mess.”

“I don’t mind,” Stiles says. He hesitates, watching Derek throw the paper towel into the trash, before offering, “If you ever get bored while you’re out on patrol, you could stop by the house.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “To play board games?”

Stiles grins. “Some kind of game, for sure.”

Derek laughs softly. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do. I can’t make any promises - we _do_ get busy sometimes.”

“Really?” Stiles questions sarcastically. He gestures between the two of them. “What was this, then?”

Derek smirks at him. “I got busy.”

Stiles tilts his head back and laughs. “Touché.” 

They leave the station together - Parrish, at the front desk, waves them out; if he heard anything, he’s not saying - and head for their respective cars. Stiles grins as he drives out of the parking lot; he feels a little better knowing he’s still got game after two and a half years. It feels pretty good to feel desirable. 

-

In the morning, while Stiles is brushing his teeth for a second time after having thrown up again - apparently the gas station tacos aren’t done with him yet - it occurs to him that if he’s going to start dating again - or at the very least, sleeping around, he should probably get an STD check because he’s got no idea how many other people Jay slept with while they were together, or if he was safe while he did it. He’s struck by a sudden flash of angry, and glares at his phone as if to dare Jay to try and call again, but the screen’s blank because he blocked Jay’s number, and there’s nothing from Derek because Stiles didn’t give him his number, just told him to show up to his house when he was free at an unspecified moment in time, like they’re in fucking middle school. 

Stiles tsks and spits out his toothpaste. Not that there’s anything between them, he amends thoughtfully. He’s not even going to consider trying to figure out what they’re doing until they’ve actually _done_ something. He’s fine with casual, he’s fine with just sex  - hell, he’s fine with _nothing_. He just doesn’t want to worry about anything right now, except making sure he’s clean, maybe. And also, his job interview because hey, he’s got one of those this morning. 

It’s just a phone interview, but he still dresses nicely in case they change their minds and want to Skype, and he makes himself sit at the dining room table for the whole thing so he won’t be distracted. It goes well; Stiles ends the call feeling pretty confident, and he lets that positive momentum get him out of the house and over to the walk-in clinic to get tested before he can start feeling bad about it - and he _shouldn’t_ feel bad, because he’s not the one who did anything wrong. _He’s_ just being a responsible adult. It’s easy; he talks briefly to a doctor, pees in a cup, they tell him they should have results in a few days, and that’s it. 

That night, Stiles forgoes visiting his dad at the station, waiting around a little nervously at the house to see if Derek shows up. He ends up falling asleep on the couch; when he wakes up, it’s to his dad coming through the front door, early morning light filtering into the living room. Stiles tries not to be disappointed; they probably had a busy night - or Derek just didn’t want to come. He knows it was wildly out of line to even suggest it. He’s got more important things to worry about, like the results of his job interview. And his STD test. Every buzz of his phone has him grabbing it anxiously, but it’s mostly just messages from Scott; he keeps sending dog memes. Stiles finds them oddly soothing.

Derek doesn’t show up that night, or the next, so Stiles gives up; he’s got the message. Derek’s not interested, or maybe not interested enough to risk his job by hooking up with him while he’s on duty. _Don’t worry man, we’ll get you laid,_ Scott texts, and then he sends Stiles a photo of a dog that ate a bumblebee. Stiles is still laughing at it when his phone begins to ring - not another text from Scott, but an actual phone call from a local number - and he sobers immediately, clearing his throat before he answers. 

“Hello?”

“Stiles Stilinski?” says a female voice on the other end of the line. “This is Dr. Boyer from the Beacon City Walk-In Clinic. Is this a good time to talk?”

 _To talk?_ Stiles thinks uneasily, a pit opening in the bottom of his stomach. If it were a simple all clear, she’d wouldn’t have said that, right? “Sure,” he says cautiously. “Is - am I - is everything all right?”

“Your STD panel came back clean,” the doctor tells him. “Nothing to worry about there. However - “ Stiles closes his eyes, holding his breath. “ - as part of our testing process, we also run a pregnancy test, and that test did come back positive.”

Stiles’ eyes fly open. “What?!” he croaks. 

“If you’d like to schedule a blood test to be sure, that’s something we can set up for you,” the doctor says, in a placid tone Stiles deems to be _way_ too calm for him to handle right now. “Your regular doctor could also - “

He hangs up on her. He hangs up and then for good measure throws his phone across his bedroom. It hits the wall and falls behind his dresser and then Stiles is standing in the middle of the room with his chest rapidly rising and falling, breathing frantically through his nose. _This isn’t happening,_ he thinks. He doesn’t even know how - _when_ was his last heat? When was the last time he’d had sex? _How_ had this happened?

There’s a gentle knock on his door and then his dad sticks his head into the room, hair ruffled from sleep. “You okay?” he asks, yawning. “Heard a bang.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles says hurriedly, because he can’t handle this, and he definitely can’t have his dad see him break down. “Go back to bed.”

HIs dad grunts and disappears back down the hallway. Stiles waits twenty, thirty seconds before he goes flying out of his room and down the stairs, then out the backyard and into the trees, running until he can’t see any houses, and then he drops onto the damp ground and buries his head against his knees. He takes big, deep breaths, inhaling the smell of leaves and wet earth until his heart stops thundering in his ears.

Stiles flops back against the ground and stares up at the sky while he tries to work things through in his head. It has to be Jay’s; Stiles hasn’t been with anyone else, except Derek, and no baby could have come out of that encounter. His last heat was...Stiles counts on his fingers and curses. Eight weeks ago - two weeks before he left New York - and with everything going on, he hadn’t noticed that it was at least two weeks late. Fuck. As for the how - they’d played it safe...most of the time. Maybe a slip up here or there when they were drunk. Maybe a broken condom. Stiles scrubs his hands over his face. Double fuck. He needs to talk to someone about this. 

“You’ve got a leaf in your hair,” Scott says later, at the bar. 

Stiles isn’t drinking; he’s morosely chewing on the straw to his soda, though at Scott’s comment he scrubs a hand through his hair and feels a leaf crunch under his fingers. He sighs. “I’m a mess.”

“Aw, no way, man,” Scott says cheerfully, bumping his shoulder against Stiles’. “It’s a baby, not a life sentence.”

Stiles drags his hands down his face. “Do you not understand how kids work?” he asks despairingly. “They do tend to stick around for life, unless you seriously fuck something up.”

“Well, I mean, they don’t have to,” Scott says. “You could always put it up for adoption.”

Stiles sighs again. “I dunno, man.”

Scott takes a long swig of his beer and then watches Stiles for a moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Okay,” he says abruptly. “What are you thinking - like, right now? This isn’t a commitment, just - tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I can’t keep it,” Stiles says. “I live at my dad’s house - I don’t even have a job.”

“So let’s say you get a job,” Scott says. “What then? Do you keep it?”

“I - I don’t know,” Stiles says, confused. He shouldn’t, he doesn’t think; even if he finds a job, he’s still living with his dad, and Jay’s not exactly in the picture. Stiles had tried calling him; after his cool-down in the woods, he’d reluctantly unblocked Jay’s number and tried, but the call went straight to voicemail - Jay’s blocked him. 

“Okay, okay,” Scott says, waving his hands around. “Step back. Big picture. Do you want kids?”

“I mean - yeah,” Stiles says. “But I always thought I’d be married first. I don’t really want to be a single dad.”

“Your dad’s a single dad,” Scott points out.

“Yeah, but - my mom was there for the first decade,” Stiles says, his throat tight. “She was there for all the formative stuff.”

Scott waves a hand dismissively. “My dad missed most of that, and I turned out all right, didn’t I?”

Stiles grins reluctantly. “Tell me the truth,” he says. “You just want me to have a kid so our kids can be best friends.”

“I’m not gonna lie to you, man,” Scott says with a grin. “That’s definitely on my mind.” He takes another swig of his beer and adds, a little more seriously, “Seriously, though, whatever you choose to do, I’m here for you. We all are.”

“Thanks, dude,” Stiles says quietly.

“And you’re not going to stay single,” Scott says. “I mean, unless you want to, but you’re hot and smart - people love you. And if you have a kid, they’ll love your kid, too.”

Stiles snorts. “Why don’t you marry me, if you love me so much?”

“Already taken,” Scott says sadly, slinging an arm around Stiles’ shoulder. “Sorry man. But hey - you only broke up with Jay like a month ago and you already hooked up with that deputy. Maybe he’ll take you off the market.”

“Nah,” Stiles sighs. “I don’t think anything’s going to come out of that.”

Stiles leaves the bar without any real decisions made, but he feels a little better all the same. Scott’s got that kind of effect on him; he puts out so much confidence and goodwill that he can’t help but feel that everything’s going to be all right - and maybe it will. 

It’s still relatively early when he gets home, and he briefly entertains the idea of going to see his dad at the station, but seeing as he was just out, as well as the fact that his dad can read him like a book, he decides against it, and collapses on the couch instead. He tries to distract himself with television, but his thoughts keep drifting and he really doesn’t _want_ to be thinking right now. 

A car pulls into the driveway, but Stiles doesn’t really notice; the deep hum of the engine sounds like his dad’s cruiser, and it’s not unheard of for his dad to stop by during a shift if he forgot something. The sound of a car door closing doesn’t catch his attention, but the knock on the door sure does. Stiles straightens warily, then slowly lifts himself off the couch and heads for the door. He peers through the peephole and his jaw drops; it’s Derek. 

Stiles hurriedly unlocks the front door and pulls it open. “Hi,” Stiles says, and Derek offers him a small smile. “I, um, I didn’t think you’d show.”

“It’s been busy,” Derek says. “And I had to work up the nerve.” He hesitates, glancing over his shoulder at the quiet street. “Does your offer still stand?”

Stiles begins to grin. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah - I could use a distraction tonight. Come in.”

They don’t even make it upstairs. Many years ago, Stiles shoved a bottle of lube deep within the couch in case he felt like jerking off and was too lazy to go upstairs, which means he doesn’t even have to think when Derek guides him down onto the couch. He likes the way Derek strips him down piece by piece, methodical and unrushed, but with purpose. Derek doesn’t fully strip - and Stiles doesn’t blame him for that; he’s on the job, after all - but he leaves his utility belt and radio on the coffee table. 

Stiles has never considered himself to have a thing for uniforms, because then he has to think about his dad and that’s not cool, but there’s something about the way the muscles in Derek’s arms flex against his shirt that gets Stiles’ heart racing. Although to be fair, it could also have something to do with the way Derek works him open in the same steady way he’d stripped Stiles, like this is just another part of his job - but he’s also breathing fast through his mouth, eyes flickering between his hand and Stiles’ face, constantly checking on him. It feels so good to feel _wanted_ , like he can tell by the way Derek’s breathing that he’s trying not to go too fast, and being wanted makes Stiles _want._

“Come on,” he breathes, because he can’t stand waiting, and he’ll be damned if the way Derek flushes as he fumbles with his belt in his hurry to get his pants down isn’t endearing. Stiles has to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from speaking when Derek leans over and pulls a condom out of one of the pouches on his utility belt because he wants to say it doesn’t matter, but that’s a road he wanted to avoid going down tonight. 

Before he can start thinking about it, though, Derek’s kneeling there in front of him, one hand under Stiles’ knee, the other on his dick. He looks at Stiles for affirmation and Stiles nods, his body tight with anticipation. Derek pushes into him slowly, fingers digging into his thigh, and Stiles has to close his eyes, his head falling back as he sighs with pleasure; Derek’s dick’s just as nice as he’s daydreamed it’d be. Derek moves slowly at first, thrusting in and out of Stiles smoothly, but he falters when Stiles hooks his legs around Derek’s hips and opens his eyes, grinning faintly. 

“That’s not really what you came here for, is it?” he asks. 

Derek’s flush deepens, and he doesn’t say anything, but he puts his hands on Stiles’ hips and _now_ they’re fucking, Derek driving into him hard and fast. Stiles groans happily, tugging at Derek’s shoulders until he leans down so they can kiss. This is _exactly_ the kind of distraction he needed, and it’s just nice to get fucked stupid. Derek’s different from Jay in just about every way - his build, his smell, the way he fucks - and Stiles needs something new right now. Derek’s perfect. 

“This is perfect,” he murmurs out loud, and he grins, pleased, at the way Derek’s hips stutter. He’s sensitive; Stiles likes that. He slips a hand between them, jerking himself off to that sweet flush on Derek’s face.

Derek breathes against his cheek, open-mouthed and a little frantic. “I’m - I’m going to come - “ he hisses.

“So come,” Stiles says. He grins at Derek, hand moving faster on his dick. “Do it for me.”

Derek exhales harshly, pining Stiles’ hips to the couch and punching into him, the sound of their skin striking loud in the quiet room. At the last moment, Derek sets his teeth against Stiles’ shoulder and he doesn’t bite down, it’s not a mating bite, but Stiles can feel the way his jaw flexes against his skin, and the shock of such intimacy is enough to send him over the edge into orgasm, his spine arching, pressing him harder against Derek’s teeth. 

When that first glorious wave of pleasure passes, Stiles collapses back against the couch, boneless, small shudders of delight running through him. Derek half falls on top of him, catching himself by his elbows, and for a long moment they just look at each other, and it’s weird, but it’s not. 

“That was good,” Stiles tells Derek. _“Really_ good.”

Derek looks both pleased and self-conscious. “I haven’t done this in a while.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Stiles says. He looks down at their bodies, and the damp patches on Derek’s shirt from Stiles’ come. “Shoulda taken your shirt off.”

Derek follows his gaze and sighs dramatically, carefully shifting back onto his knees, Stiles grimacing at the loss of his dick and how gross he suddenly feels. “Next time,” Derek says, and then he seems to catch himself, looking at Stiles carefully. “If you want a next time.”

“Dude, _yes,”_ Stiles says enthusiastically. Derek’s shoulders relax in relief. He gets to his feet, tucking himself back into his pants and examining his shirt ruefully. “You want to borrow one of my dad’s?” Stiles offers, watching him. “He’s got plenty.”

“It’ll be fine,” Derek says, still looking at his shirt. “I’ll be alone in my cruiser for most of my shift.” He glances up and catches Stiles touching the spot on his shoulder where Derek had not...bitten him, exactly, but it tingles. “Oh,” Derek says, looking embarrassed. “That - I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Stiles says, bending over to locate his clothes. “I liked it.”

“Oh,” Derek says, taken aback. “I’ll - remember that.”

Stiles slips on his boxers and looks up at him with a grin. “Good. Hey - you want a sandwich for the road?”

“Oh,” Derek says again. “I - “ On the coffee table between them, his radio crackles to life, the night dispatcher sounding out a code. “I should go,” he says reluctantly. “Can I...come back? Tomorrow, if I don’t get too busy?”

Stiles’ grin widens. “I’ll be here.”

Sex with Derek is the distraction Stiles needed it to be; he sleeps great that night, well enough that he doesn’t panic in the morning when he remembers that he’s _pregnant._ Even though he throws up in the shower - and the gas station tacos were consumed so long ago now that he _knows_ they’re not to blame - he feels weirdly calm. He doesn’t really think about it; he lets it sit at the back of his mind and percolate while he adjusts to the idea of it, and focuses on finding a job instead. It works; two days later, he gets a job offer from the place he had the phone interview with, and he accepts. It’s nothing big, and it’s nothing challenging, but that doesn’t really matter to him right now. Derek comes over almost every night for two weeks straight, and Stiles just enjoys how free he feels.

Eventually, though, he has to make a decision about the baby. He’s been behaving himself since he found out - no alcohol, no coffee; he goes to his old family doctor and gets a second opinion, just to be sure. HIs doctor confirms it’s true - not that Stiles is really surprised, considering how much he’s been throwing up - but hearing it again out loud forces him to face the music: he’s got to make up his mind. 

When he does think about it, it’s a surprise to him that it’s not black and white. Sure, he panicked when he first found out, and his first instinct was _get it out of me_ , but now...he’s not sure. Logically, he knows this probably isn’t the best time to do it, and if he were still with Jay, it’d be one thing - but at the same time, part of him thinks _why not?_ Yeah, he’s single, but his new job pays well, and the cost of living is a heck of a lot cheaper here than it is in New York City. 

Maybe it’s the changing hormones or something, but Stiles feels weirdly zen about the whole situation. He always knew he’d have kids, so why not now? It’s not like he’s a teenager without any options; he’s got a good job and a support system, and half his friends have kids already. Stiles doesn’t rush into a decision, but the more he thinks about it, the more he finds himself leaning toward yes. There’s one morning where he wakes up and kills a little time daydreaming about what it’ll be like when his pregnancy’s further along - and it hits him: he’s already decided. This is _happening._

Stiles exhales quietly and rolls onto his stomach, shoving his face into his pillow. He’s going to do it. Then he thinks _no, no, this is crazy, right?_ It _is_ crazy, but he wants this baby. He’s _excited_ about this baby, god help him.

Stiles exhales again when he realizes that he’s going to have to tell his dad about this. No one knows yet except for Scott, and he’s put off telling his dad because he _knows_ what his dad’s reaction’s going to be, and he wanted to come to a decision on his own. Dad’s not going to be happy with him; he’s always been very proud of Stiles for getting an education and building a career, and Stiles knows he’s going to think a baby’s going to derail all of that, but honestly, Stiles doesn’t think it will. For a little while, maybe, but Stiles fully plans on keeping his life on track, especially if he’s going to be doing this alone. 

Still, he’s got to tell his dad; the truth’s going to come out eventually anyway, especially when he gets to the point where he literally won’t be able to hide it, so he might as well get it over early on and give his dad a chance to - hopefully - get over it. He could even do it right now - he can hear his dad taking a shower, but he’s going to be heading to bed soon, and Stiles would rather do it when he’s rested. He’ll do it tonight, he decides; he’ll stop by the station with junk food to soften the blow, and tell him then, and then he can bounce if his dad gets too upset. It’ll be fine, though...he hopes.

There’s another person Stiles knows he needs to tell, as reluctant as he is to make contact: Jay. It’s only right; even if what Jay did to him was fucked up, he’s still the dad, and Stiles doesn’t want him to find out years down the road and make a big deal of it. Stiles isn’t sure how he’s going to react - they once had a talk about kids, but it was in a vague, maybe someday way that wasn’t really conclusive. Jay’s still got his number blocked - Stiles has tried calling a couple times - but he’s convinced a friend of theirs to tell Jay to call him, and Jay does, while he’s sitting at work. 

Stiles curses softly when he sees Jay’s number on his screen, but he steps out into the stairwell for some privacy and takes a deep breath before he puts to the phone to his ear. He’s not really ready for this; he’s still angry and hurt at what Jay did, but this needs to be done. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Jay says quietly, and the sound of his voice makes Stiles - he doesn’t know _how_ to feel. 

“Hi,” Stiles repeats tightly. He feels hot all over. He draws in a deep breath, but before he can speak, Jay gets there first. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “What I did was stupid and selfish, and I’m sorry.”

Stiles closes his eyes, biting back the anger that swells in his chest. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” he says crisply. 

“It’s not?” Jay asks, sounding startled. “But - ”

“We’re done,” Stiles hisses. “I don’t give a shit if you’re sorry or not. If it makes you sleep better at night - fine, whatever, but I don’t care.” He takes a deep breath and continues, “I just wanted you to know I’m pregnant.”

“What?” Jay exclaims. “Are you serious? Is this - do you want to get back together or something, because I - “

“Fuck no!” Stiles snaps, then looks up and down the stairs guiltily. He says, voice lower, “I don’t ever want to _see_ you again. I don’t _want_ anything from you - I just wanted to give you the chance to decide if you want to be involved or not.”

“Oh,” Jay says blankly. “I - I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Stiles says irritably. “Just - think about it.” And he hangs up, his heart beating fast in his chest. He feels shaken; already, his time on the east coast had begun to feel like a lifetime ago, but hearing Jay’s voice had brought it all crashing back. He’s already regretting calling; what if Jay _does_ want to be involved? What if he decides he wants custody? How would that work, with them on opposite sides of the country?

 _Stop it,_ he tells himself sternly. He hasn’t even _had_ the baby yet; they’ll figure it out. He’s got bigger, more local things to worry about, like how he’s going to casually bring it up to his dad. Hamburgers are the best way to soften the blow, he decides; his dad would _kill_ for a good hamburger, especially now that Stiles is back home and can monitor how much red meat he’s consuming, so that’s definitely the way to go. Maybe Dad will be so psyched about the burger that he won’t even mind that Stiles is pregnant.

When Stiles arrives at the station later that evening, he can’t help but look around for Derek. He’s nowhere in sight, though, and the parking lot’s mostly empty. He nods at the deputy on duty behind the front desk and heads for his dad’s office.

“What’s this for?” his dad asks suspiciously, when Stiles dumps the bag of food on his desk. 

Stiles deflates a little; maybe his plan won’t work. “Can’t I treat my old man?”

Dad opens the bag and peers inside. “Not with - “ He inhales deeply. “Sweet potato fries. I thought I wasn’t allowed to have anything that’s touched vegetable oil.”

“Well, we all need a treat sometimes,” Stiles says defensively.

His father pulls out a hamburger and unwraps it, and there’s no denying the way his face lights up. “You’re up to something,” he says, and takes a big bite of hamburger, closing his eyes blissfully as he chews. When he’s swallowed, he waves the burger at Stiles and says, “What’s up with you? You’ve been more fidgety than usual lately.”

Stiles, who’d been anxiously jiggling his leg up and down, stills guiltily. “Nothing,” he says, trying to stall.

His dad shakes his head, taking another bite of hamburger. “Uh uh,” he says. “Spill.”

Stiles twists his mouth from side to side as he tries to work up the nerve. “Well, I…” He sighs. “I’m, uh, pregnant, Dad.”

His father stops chewing. He sets down the hamburger and then stares at Stiles, who shifts around in his chair uneasily. He looks down at his desk and then out to the lobby, gaze distant. He runs his hand over his hair and then looks at Stiles again. “Pregnant?”

Stiles nods nervously. “Yeah. I’m keeping it.”

“Pregnant,” his dad says again, almost to himself, thoughtful. “Huh.”

Stiles is confused - and a little concerned; this isn’t the reaction he expected. “Dad?” he says cautiously. “Did I break you?”

Dad shakes his head a little. “No, no,” he says. “I just, uh, wasn’t expecting that, I guess.” He considers his hamburger for a moment, brow furrowed. “It’s Jay’s?”

Stiles nods again. 

“He knows?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re keeping it?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” Dad squints at him. “Really?”

 _“Yes,”_ Stiles says defensively, a little irritated. 

“Huh,” his dad says again. “Well - congratulations.”

Stiles blinks. “That’s it?”

His father frowns. “What do you want me to say?”

“I thought you’d, I dunno, try to talk me out of it.”

“You’re a grown man,” Dad says patiently. “You get to make your own decisions. Do you _want_ me to try and talk you out of it?”

“No,” Stiles says. “I mean - no.”

“Then come here,” his dad says, getting to his feet and holding out his arms. Stiles gladly gets up and goes in for a hug. “Weirdest thing,” his dad says, patting Stiles’ back. “Your mom told me here too.”

“What, about me?” Stiles asks, surprised. 

His dad nods. “Yep. Not in this office - I wasn’t sheriff yet - but she brought me lunch and told me in the break room.” He smiles. “Must be a family tradition.”

They settle back in their seats, but Stiles still eyes his dad with some surprise and trepidation. “You’re really okay with this?” he asks. “You’re not worried about me?”

Dad sighs. “Son, I worry about you every day - but I’m a parent; that’s what I do. You’re your own person now; if you’ve thought about this and decided it’s what you want, then I’ll support you.”

Stiles blinks, his throat unexpectedly tight. “Thanks, Dad.”

His dad smiles as he picks his hamburger back up. “I _do_ reserve the right to laugh at you when your kid turns out to be as much of a hellion as you were.”

Stiles snorts. “Fair enough.”

He leaves later feeling lighter; his dad having his back is an unexpected but very much appreciated turn of events, and knowing that he’s going to be there for Stiles makes the thought of doing this so much easier.  He’s still sure his dad isn’t as cool with it as he says he is, but Stiles will take what he can get.

Speaking of taking what he can get, Stiles has barely parked at the house when a cruiser pulls into the driveway behind him. Stiles grins as he hops out of the jeep, turning to watch Derek get out of the cruiser. “You’re here kind of early tonight,” Stiles says. 

Derek shrugs. “I wanted to see you,” he replies.

Stiles is glad the sun’s already gone down so Derek can’t see how red his face gets. It’s flattering, all right? Derek’s been coming over almost every night, and Stiles isn’t going to lie to himself; he’s into Derek, and if he were to mention being interested in trying something a little more serious, Stiles certainly wouldn’t be opposed to it. The only thing complicating things now is...the baby.

Stiles doesn’t know whether to tell him or not. Like, it’s going to obvious in a couple months anyway, but he’s worried that if he tells Derek now, Derek might bounce - which is _fine_ , he’s got every right to do that, but, selfishly, Stiles wants as much of him as he can get. And what happens if they decide to get serious? Derek should know so he can decide if he wants to deal with that - but then again, Stiles doesn’t want to bring it up if they’re not going to get serious. 

He’ll wait a couple weeks, he thinks. Maybe it’s selfish (okay, he _knows_ it’s selfish), but he’s waiting a couple weeks longer to tell his friends anyway, just to be sure he’s clear of the first trimester, so he figures he can tell Derek at the same time. His dad’s already promised not to tell the station until Stiles is ready, so there’s no danger on that end. He just hopes Derek will be cool with it; maybe he’ll luck out and Derek _loves_ kids. Who knows.

-

Most of a week slips by, and even though it’s minute, he’s beginning to feel his body change. The morning sickness has mostly stopped, for one thing - thank _god -_ and while his pants still fit, it’s becoming a great relief to get home from work and immediately change into sweatpants. He feels... _happy_ , happier than he’s been in months. He still thinks this is crazy, but at the same time he’s proud of his decision, and to further cement it in place, he goes to the doctor for a check-up and gets an ultrasound. He grins when he sees it on the screen: his very own vaguely baby-shaped blob. The nurse gives him a printout, and after he’s finished work that evening, he heads over to the station to show his dad. 

It’s still early when he gets there, the parking lot still somewhat full; most of the day shift hasn’t left yet. He’s a little surprised to see Derek standing halfway down the sidewalk outside the building, his head turned to look at the lot. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Stiles, but Stiles will stop to say hello - after he’s hidden the ultrasound somewhere. Stiles has to twist to reach it; it’s fallen off the passenger seat and onto the floor. When he’s straightened, hand reaching for the door handle, he sees that Derek’s dropped into a crouch, and he barely has time to register how weird this is before a young voice yells _“Dad!”_ and a little boy comes running down the sidewalk and right into Derek’s arms. 

Stiles stares at them blankly, frozen in the movement of opening the car door as he watches Derek swing the kid up into the air, both of them laughing. The kid can’t be any older than seven or so, and he’s basically a younger, softer carbon copy of Derek - there’s no way he’s _not_ Derek’s kid, even ignoring the fact that he called Derek _Dad._ There’s a sinking feeling Stiles’ stomach, though; why wouldn’t have Derek told him he had a kid?

The _why_ becomes apparent momentarily, as a dark-haired woman comes down the sidewalk from the same direction the kid had appeared from and Derek turns to talk to her, still smiling. The pit in Stiles’ stomach turns into a chasm. Derek has a family. Derek has a family, and he and Stiles have been _fucking behind their backs._

Stiles curls into himself, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. _“Fuck!”_ he hisses frantically. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck!”_ How could this happen? How could Derek do this to his family? How the fuck could he stand there smiling when just the night before he’d spent twenty minutes eating Stiles out before fucking his brains out? What’s _wrong_ with him? And what’s so wrong with Stiles that he keeps attracting these fucking _asshole_ cheaters? Derek’s just as bad as Jay - worse, even, because at least he and Jay weren’t married, and kids weren’t in the equation at the time. Even worse, Stiles _told_ Derek what Jay had done a couple weeks ago, and Derek had _sympathized._ He’d known exactly what he was doing, and how Stiles felt about it, and he’d _still done it, what the_ ** _fuck._**

Stiles grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white, struggling to pull in air. He can’t believe this is happening to him - _again._ And he’s not just the blindsided victim this time; he’s part of it, he _caused_ this. He’s the one who flirted, who didn’t listen when his dad told him to stay away, the one who told Derek to come to the house. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, his shoulders shaking. He tries to calm down; he knows that stress isn’t good for the baby, but he can’t quite seem to catch his breath, the air rattling in and out of him. He can’t seem to catch himself; he’s falling down a hill, racing toward a panic attack - when a knock on his window surprises him into breathing again. 

Stiles looks up, hoping to see his dad, but to his horror, Derek’s standing there, looking concerned. “Stiles?” he asks, his voice slightly muffled by the glass. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, no,” Stiles groans, scrambling to get his keys into the ignition. “No, no, no - “

“Stiles?” Derek says again. “Do - ”

“Get the fuck away from me!” Stiles yells, so loud Derek takes a startled step backward, giving Stiles the room he needs to throw the jeep into reverse and zoom out of the spot. He speeds the entire way home, fighting to keep his breathing even. When he gets back to the house, he makes sure all the lights are out and doors are locked before he goes upstairs and collapses into bed, because he’s got a feeling Derek’s going to try to stop by. Until that happens, though, he stays curled in bed, fighting off his thoughts. He wants to talk to Scott, but he’s too ashamed to even pick up the phone. 

Stiles’ suspicion eventually proves correct; a couple hours after he gets home, he hears a car pull into the driveway, and a minute or two later, someone knocks on the front door. He doesn’t bother getting out of bed, because there’s no one else it could be except Derek. He knocks again after a minute or two, and a couple minutes after that, Stiles hears the car leave. Derek doesn’t get the hint, though; he comes back the next three nights, and Stiles ignores him every time he comes to the door. Stiles actually sees him the fourth night; he’s up in his room by the window and sees the cruiser come down the street, slowing by the driveway, but Derek doesn’t pull in, and Stiles sighs in relief. 

It takes a few weeks - with no further contact from Derek - for the hurt and shame to wear off enough that he feels like he can talk to Scott about it, but when he does, Scott’s completely on his side. 

“This is _not_ your fault, man,” he says. “Derek’s the one who decided to cheat.”

“Yeah, but I encouraged him,” Stiles says miserably. “If I hadn’t flirted with him - ”

Scott shakes his head. “You thought you were flirting with someone who was single,” he argues. “Derek knew exactly what he was doing. That’s sick.”

Stiles sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Doesn’t feel good,” he says. “I liked him, man. I thought he was a good dude. I don’t understand how people can do shit like this.”

Scott slings his arm around Stiles’ shoulder. “Some people are assholes. Don’t give up; we’ll find you someone who’s _actually_ nice.”

Stiles waves his hand wearily. “Don’t bother; for now, I’m just going to concentrate on having this kid.”

And for a month, that’s what he does. He works as much overtime as the new job will allow, because he’s determined to do right by this baby. It’s pretty easy to save money when he’s living at home and not paying rent. His dad insists that Stiles can live in the house as long as he wants, which Stiles will certainly think about, but part of him wants a space for himself and the baby, a little home just for them. Jay gets back in touch; he doesn’t want to be a parent, but he sounds guilty and worried enough about it that he offers Stiles money in support, which Stiles says he’ll think about accepting - he’s got his pride, but now he’s got a kid to think about, too.

Overall, things are good. The baby’s healthy, all his friends and family know and support him, and Stiles is happy - for the most part. He can’t help the way his thoughts sometimes stray to Derek - especially when he’s horny, but then he inevitably thinks about Derek’s family, and it makes him sick to his stomach. He avoids the station, scared of running into Derek there; he’s got an excuse now anyway, since he works a normal nine to five, and then the overtime on top of that, and he tells his dad he’s been going to bed early. He can tell his dad knows something’s up, but Stiles doesn’t have the heart to tell him - not after his dad warned him not to get involved with Derek. He’d known, Stiles thinks glumly. That’s why he’d warned Stiles off, and he hadn’t listened.

It’s - whatever. He’ll get past it eventually; the longer he goes without seeing Derek, the easier it is not to think about it, although one night he’s at the grocery store after work and he sees Derek’s wife, girlfriend, whatever she is, and he nearly has another panic attack, bending almost in half to stare at the navel oranges so she won’t see him. She’s got their kid with her, and they’re so close Stiles can hear them talking, the little boy reading off the labels in the exotic fruit section. 

“Papaya,” he says proudly. “Per - per - Mom, what’s that one?”

“Persimmon,” the woman tells him. “You want to try one?”

“What’s it taste like?” the kid asks curiously. 

“I don’t know; I’ve never had one,” the woman says, reaching out and picking one up. “Let’s try it.”

Stiles wants to melt through the ground. There’s absolutely no denying it now - the kid called her _Mom_ and he already heard the kid call Derek _Dad -_ and the worst part is they have no idea what Derek’s done to them. What Stiles has done to them. He should tell the woman so she knows, so she can leave him if she wants - Stiles has been in her shoes and god knows he would have wanted someone to tell him instead of finding out by accident. What if he’s not the only one Derek’s been with? He should tell her so she can get checked for STDs - but he can’t move. He’s worried about how she’ll react - and he can’t do it with the kid there, watching him, listening but not understanding. They move off through the produce section and Stiles rubs at his forehead, nervous sweat prickling at his temples. Maybe...he can write a letter, steal her contact information from his dad’s files; if they’re married, she’s probably Derek’s emergency contact. That’s what he’ll do. He exhales and chooses an orange. That’s what he’ll do. 

Stiles puts it off. It’s not that he doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t know _how_ to say it. He sits at his desk at work and gazes off into space, trying to compose the letter in his head. _Dear ma’am,_ he tries. Too formal. _To whom it may concern._ Too impersonal. _Dear Mrs. Hale._ Too personal. 

_I’m a scumbag,_ he thinks, and scrubs his hands through his hair anxiously. 

He puts it off for several days, and then the situation is completely torn from his hands, because Derek shows up at the house. Stiles is in the kitchen cleaning up after his dinner, so he doesn’t hear the car pull into the driveway, but he does hear the doorbell ring. It doesn’t even occur to him that it might be Derek outside; he thought that Derek had finally clued in on the fact that Stiles didn’t want to see him anymore, and anyway, Scott had mentioned he might stop by later, so Stiles opens the door expecting to see him, not Derek. For a moment, Stiles just stares; Derek is wearing civilian clothes, just jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, but Stiles has never seen him dressed like that, and it throws him. Then Derek opens his mouth to speak and Stiles remembers who he is - what an _asshole_ he is - and tries to slam the door shut, his body flushing hot with anger. 

Derek catches the door before Stiles can close it, though; Stiles pushes at it angrily, but Derek’s stronger than he is. “Stiles,” Derek says. “Your dad asked me to stop by.”

Stiles stops pushing at the door, but only so he can glare at Derek. “Why?” he asks shortly. 

Derek holds up a plastic bag, putting it between them like a shield. “He said you’ve been working a lot and he wanted to make sure you’re eating well.”

“I don’t need food,” Stiles says flatly. “I just ate.”

“Well - ”

 _“Goodbye,”_ Stiles says viciously, and shoves at the door. 

Derek doesn’t budge. “Stiles,” he says again, in a soft, careful tone that makes Stiles’ insides squirm. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m sorry. I want us to be friends.”

Stiles lets go of the door so abruptly that Derek almost stumbles at the sudden loss of pressure. _Friends,_ he thinks furiously, and something inside him snaps. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls. “What the fuck - _friends?_ Are you fucking kidding me? After what you did?” He’s breathing heavily, all the rage and hurt he’d begun to pack away rushing to the surface, pouring out of him. “How could you do that to them? To - to _me?_ I _told_ you what Jay did to me!”

Derek looks bewildered and a little concerned. “What are you talking about?” he asks. “What did I do?”

“You can stop pretending like you’re innocent,” Stiles spits. “I saw you. I saw them - I saw your kid.”

Derek’s face darkens. “What about my kid?” he snaps. “That’s what this is about? You’re pissed because I didn’t tell you about him?”

“No, I’m pissed because you’re a fucking cheater!” Stiles yells.

Derek furrows his heavy brows at Stiles, his face flushed. “And just who did I cheat on you with?” he asks sarcastically. 

“Your wife,” Stiles says coldly.

Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles. “I don’t have a wife,” he says shortly. 

Stiles shrugs angrily. “Fine, your girlfriend, then. Whatever.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Derek says. He folds his arms over his chest. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Will you _stop?”_ Stiles says, suddenly weary. “Just - stop lying to me. I saw you guys at the station. I saw her and your kid at the store - he called her Mom.”

Derek’s face slackens in sudden understanding. “Oh,” he says softly. 

“Oh,” Stiles echoes sarcastically, then sighs. “Look - just get out of here. I don’t want to be your friend.”

“Stiles, listen to me,” Derek says. “That was my sister.”

Stiles scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Derek says. “My son’s mom is out of the picture. Cora’s been helping me with him since he was a baby. A couple months ago he decided he wanted to start calling her Mom and we’ve been trying to break the habit.” He stares at Stiles, eyes searching his face. “I swear I’m not lying.”

Stiles shifts uneasily, not sure what to believe. He never wanted to believe Derek would do this to him or his own family, but he feels so raw he’s not quite willing to open himself up again, afraid it’s just more lies. 

“Ask your dad,” Derek says, sensing Stiles’ reluctance. “He’s met them both a thousand times.”

That makes Stiles pause; Derek wouldn’t say that unless it was true, because Stiles’ dad wouldn’t lie about something like that. Maybe Derek _is_ telling the truth. “Okay,” he says quietly. 

Derek looks at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Do you really think I’m the kind of person who’d do something like that?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs unhappily. “I didn’t want to think that,” he says. “But I never thought my ex was, either.”

Derek’s face softens slightly. “I get it,” he says quietly. 

“No. I’m the asshole here,” Stiles says, and laughs, too sharp and high. “I guess I’ve got some shit to work on.” He reaches for the door. “Look, I - I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s okay, Stiles. I can see how - I should have been more clear.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, smiling uncomfortably. “You don’t owe me any explanation. It’s not like we were dating, anyway.”

Derek opens his mouth and then closes it, looking a little hurt. Stiles doesn’t have the energy to try and parse that reaction. He begins to close the door, but pauses when Derek says, “I still mean it. About being friends.”

“I - I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “I - don’t want to be your friend. I want - _wanted_ \- to date you.” He sees Derek begin to open his mouth, and hurries on, plunging over the edge of the cliff as it comes into sight. “It’s not a good time. I’m having a kid, so - ”

Derek’s eyes go wide. “A kid?” he says, and his eyes dart down to Stiles’ stomach, hidden under the loose tee Stiles is wearing. He looks back at Stiles. “Mine?” he asks hoarsely.   
  


“Oh, no!” Stiles hurries to say. “No, no - it’s my ex’s. Not yours.”

Derek visibly relaxes, and Stiles finds himself irrationally offended by this, like he’d be so awful to raise a kid with; he’s a fucking delight. “Well,” he says tightly. “LIke I said, it’s not a good time right now, so…”

“Right,” Derek says quietly. He hesitates before saying, “If there’s anything you need - ”

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles says curtly. “You can tell my dad I ate the food.”

Derek gives him a long look. “If you were avoiding the station because of me,” he says softly. “You don’t need to anymore.” And with that he turns on his heel and strides off down the driveway, where an SUV - not his cruiser - is parked. Stiles doesn’t wait to see him go; he shuts the front door and then puts his back to it, sinking down to the floor. His hands are shaking as the adrenaline arisen from his anger leaves him; he feels cold suddenly, and small. He doesn’t know what to think or feel; he’s _almost_ sure Derek’s telling the truth, but he doesn’t feel any better about the situation. He feels a different kind of guilt now, as well as regret for fucking up the possibility of any kind of relationship between them, even a friendly one - you don’t come back from something like this, you just _don’t_. Why would Derek want to be friends with a paranoid asshole who yelled at him in front of the whole neighborhood?

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Scott says a few days later as they stand in his backyard, flipping a row of burgers on the grill. “You made a deduction based off the information you had, and it was pretty damning. I mean, you _heard_ the kid call him Dad and the woman Mom - what were you supposed to think?”

Stiles sighs heavily, watching Scott’s daughter stalk around the backyard with a super soaker, strategically assassinating her Barbies. “Yeah, but I could have just talked to him instead of, you know, avoiding him for weeks and then screaming at him like a lunatic. Like an adult.” 

“You were angry,” Scott says. “You apologized.”

“Dude, you are being way too easy on me,” Stiles says. “I know you’re my best friend and you’re on my side, but I was an ass.”

Scott sets down his spatula and raises an eyebrow at him. “Yeah? It’s not like that’s out of the norm for you. Why’s it bothering you so much?”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest uncomfortably. “I dunno,” he says. Then he sighs again, giving up. “Because I like him.”

Scott gives him an exasperated look. “So why didn’t you tell him that when he said he wanted to be friends?”

“Because I was still mad at him,” Stiles says. 

“And now you’re not?”

“Now I just feel bad. About everything.” Stiles shrugs helplessly. “What do I do?”

Scott clicks his tongue, turning back to the grill. “I don’t know, man. I guess you can try talking to him, but don’t expect anything to come of it - this is a bell that you might not be able to unring.”

Stiles heaves one last sigh. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re probably right.”

“Is it even worth it?” Scott asks, flipping the burgers again. “I mean - what’s your goal here?”

Stiles hesitates. “I’m not sure.”

“You need to figure it out,” Scott says pointedly, “or else you’re wasting everyone’s time.”

Stiles blinks, a little candor - but then again, that’s what he’s here for. He knows Scott’s right. What does he want? “Thanks, man,” he says. 

Scott grins at him as Kira steps out into the backyard, a bowl of pasta salad in her arms. “You know, your life seemed a lot less dramatic when you were on the other side of the country, dude.”

Stiles snorts, not offended. “You and me both.” He turns to say hi to Kira and sees it happen in slow motion: Scott and Kira’s daughter, having executed all her Barbies, turns to living targets, and shoots Kira right in the side with a cold jet of water. Kira shrieks in surprise and her bowl of pasta salad goes flying. Stiles ends up covered in oily spirals of rotini and veggies, but he’s laughing too hard to care. 

-

Stiles gets his chance to find out the truth about Derek a couple nights later, when he comes home to find it’s his dad’s night off, and he’s made them a generous spread for dinner. Stiles raises his eyebrows as he comes into the kitchen and sees all the food. 

“What’s all this about?” he asks. 

“Made it all from scratch,” Dad says proudly.

“Yeah, but why?” Stiles asks, amused. “You planning on feeding an army?”

“I just want to be sure you’re eating right,” his dad replies, looking pointedly at Stiles’ stomach. 

Stiles pats his little bump protectively. “I am,” he says defensively, narrowing his eyes at his father. “And you don’t need to set your deputies on me to make sure of it, you know.”

Dad at least has the grace to look embarrassed, but he says, “I told you, Stiles; it’s my job to worry about you.”

Stiles shakes his head, but he helps his dad set the table, keeping his mouth closed until they’re both sitting, plates full. He watches his dad scoop up a fork full of corn and then, before he can grab another, Stiles asks, “Why didn’t you tell me Derek has a family?”

His father looks surprised. “You two always talk when he’s at the station; I thought he told you.”

“You’ve met his kid, though?” Stiles asks.

“Sure,” his dad nods. “Will. He’s a good kid. Well-behaved. Likes bugs.”

Stiles smiles, trying to sound casual. “And - “ He thinks hard for a moment, trying to remember; he’s certain Derek said his maybe sister’s name. “Cora,” Stiles says with relief, almost snapping his fingers. “You’ve met her?”

“A couple times,” his dad says. “You can definitely tell they’re all related - a very solemn family, they are. I thought she and Derek were twins the first time I met her.”

“They’re siblings,” Stiles says quietly.

“That’s what I’m saying,” his dad says, waving his fork around. “And that kid of Derek’s, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree - ”

Stiles stares off into space, his dad’s voice fading as Stiles’ thoughts demand his attention. So he really was wrong. He’d freaked out and yelled at Derek, who hadn’t done anything wrong. No wonder he’d looked so confused and hurt. God, this is what Stiles gets for jumping - _cannonballing_ to conclusions. 

“Stiles?” Stiles blinks and looks at his dad, who frowns. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says awkwardly. “I’m fine. I’ve just - got a lot on my mind.”

Dad’s frown deepens; Stiles can almost see the gears behind his eyes begin to turn. He hurriedly shoves chicken into his mouth, but it’s too late; his dad asks calmly - _too_ calmly, “Why all the questions about the Hales, anyway?”

Stiles swallows hard. He tries to reach for the dinner rolls, but his dad yanks the bowl away from him. “I was just curious,” he says innocently. 

“Why not ask Derek?” Dad asks, narrowing his eyes. “I thought you two were friends.”

“Maybe not right now,” Stiles says, wincing. 

His dad sighs and buries his face in his hands. “Stiles,” he groans. “I _told_ you. I asked you for one thing - _one thing -_ and you couldn’t listen!?”

“I - I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Stiles protests, which, okay, isn’t quite true. He _wanted_ it to happen. But Derek was the one who made the first move, so it’s a _little_ true, right? 

“No wonder he looks so guilty every time I see him,” Dad says irritably. “What’s wrong with you?”

Stiles bristles at this. “You’re the one who told me I’m old enough to make my own decisions. It’s not your problem.”

“It _is_ my problem when it’s one of my deputies!” his father says sharply. “If this gets messy - ”

“It already is,” Stiles says, shrugging. “Or - it was. It doesn’t matter now. He’s - professional, Dad. It’s not going to be a problem.”

Dad eyes him for a long minute, gaze sharp, too observant. “He hurt you?” he asks, some of the anger fading from his voice. 

“No,” Stiles says, avoiding his gaze now, digging disconsolately at his chicken. “I hurt him.”

He can feel his dad watching him still, the dining room quiet. After another long moment, his dad asks, “Do you want me to talk to him?”

“No!” Stiles says, horrified. “No - just - leave him alone, please. He’s probably had his fill of Stilinskis getting into his business.”

Dad forces out an unamused laugh, but he doesn’t argue; he looks relieved. “Are you going to try to work it out with him?”

Stiles sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Does that mean you’ll start coming by the station again?” his father asks hopefully.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You just miss having your dinner hand-delivered to you every night.”

“Caught me,” his dad says sadly.

Stiles does start going back to the stations in the evenings, though, because he does miss spending time with his dad. He doesn’t go almost every night like he used to, and the first night he goes back, he’s more nervous than he expected to be, scanning the parking lot for any sign of Derek (there is none), and breathing a sigh of relief when he steps inside and it’s one of the older deputies on duty at the front desk. He knows that he’ll run into Derek eventually, but in the meantime, he just enjoys the time with his dad again.

Inevitably, it happens; he gets to the station one night and he’s halfway up the walkway when the door to the station opens and Derek steps outside. Derek sees him immediately - it’s not like Stiles has time to throw himself into the bushes - and his mouth thins. Stiles stops walking, his body going hot; this is the moment he’s been dreading, and he has no idea what to say. Derek didn’t stop; he’s getting closer, so Stiles goes with the first thing that comes to mind, a weak “Uh, hi.”

Derek looks at him coolly. For a moment, Stiles thinks he’s not going to say anything at all, but then he says, “Hi,” and walks right past him. 

Stiles stares after him, his heart racing in his chest. _That’s it?_ he wonders, disappointed. It just doesn’t feel right. He trots after Derek, calls, “Hey, can we talk?”

Derek casts him an irritated look over his shoulder. “I thought you wanted space.”

“I don’t,” Stiles confesses. Derek stops in front of his cruiser and turns to look at him, his brow furrowing. Stiles plunges onward: “If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. I just need you to know I’m sorry.”

Derek looks exasperated. “I told you; it’s fine,” he says.

“It’s not,” Stiles says. “I was way out of line. I shouldn’t have treated you like that - I’m sorry.”

“I _get_ it,” Derek says shortly. “What do you want from me, Stiles? You said you didn’t want to be friends. I left you alone. What do you _want?_ ”

“I know,” Stiles says wretchedly. “I know. I was still freaking out when I said that. I’m - things are really weird right now, all right? This - “ He gestures at his stomach, then at the world around them, as if to say _everything._ “ - is a mess. I’m a mess; I know that. But I really liked spending time with you - even before we started hooking up. So - I don’t know. You’ve got every right to tell me to fuck off, but I’d regret it if I didn’t tell you that I wanted to go back to the way things were - or just be friends. Whatever you want.”

Derek slowly sinks down to sit on the hood of his cruiser, brow still furrowed. Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and hovers there, watching him anxiously. “What about your kid?” he asks eventually, nodding toward Stiles’ stomach.

“What about it?” Stiles asks. “I don’t expect you to be a dad or anything. What about _your_ kid?” 

Derek snorts softly. “Touché.”

They’re quiet for another long moment, Stiles rocking on his heels to try and soothe some of his nervous energy. Eventually, though, Derek says, “I can’t do it.”

Stiles blinks, his heart sinking. “What?”

“I can’t do it,” Derek says again. “I can’t go back to where we were, and I can’t be your friend.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, disappointed. “Well. That’s fair. I - ”

“However,” Derek says, speaking over him. “I _can_ take you out sometime.” He offers Stiles a faint smile. “Dinner, maybe?”

Stiles stares at him. “Seriously?” Derek nods, and Stiles starts to grin. “I - shit, man. That was sneaky.”

Derek looks pleased. “Is that a yes?”

“Hell yes,” Stiles nods, grinning widely now.

“Come here,” Derek says, gesturing at him, and Stiles closes the distance between them. Derek tilts his head back so he can meet Stiles’ eyes and says, “I’ve missed seeing you.”

“Me too,” Stiles says - and then, because he’s there, and because he _can,_ he dips down for a quick kiss. Derek approves; he curls his fingers in Stiles’ belt loops and pulls him in closer and they kiss again, deeper, slower - only to jerk apart when a window bangs open somewhere behind Stiles and his dad yells, “Hey, _hey_ \- not in my parking lot! Cut it out!”

Stiles grins down at Derek, his face hot. “Dinner, then? Tomorrow?” 

Derek smiles, his cheeks flushed. “It’s a date.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Fanart] Pillow forts and Cold Hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/991771) by [grimm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimm/pseuds/grimm), [oldmanrenkas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldmanrenkas/pseuds/oldmanrenkas)




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